For three long years everyone he trusted whispered his wife had betrayed him, run off with another man and stolen half his fortune, and he’d hated her with every beat of his broken heart.

Ethan spent the rest of the day hiding.

He found a cheap motel on the edge of the city, paid cash for a room, and locked himself inside.

The walls were thin. The carpet was stained. The air smelled like cigarettes and regret.

He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at nothing.

Claire.

Smiling at another man.

Letting him touch her.

Letting him kiss her.

Ethan pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars.

He had woken up from a coma believing in her. He had dragged his broken body across the state because he knew her. Knew she would never leave. Knew she would wait.

And he had found her.

But not the way he expected.

The pain was physical. A tightness in his chest that wouldn't loosen. A nausea that rose in his throat.

He thought about the years they had shared. The tiny apartment. The pushcart. The nights they had gone to bed hungry because they couldn't afford dinner, but they had each other.

“I didn't marry your contracts, Ethan. I married you.”

Had that been a lie too?

Had everything been a lie?

Ethan stood and paced the small room. His legs protested, but he needed to move. Needed to do something with the energy building inside him.

He thought about going back. Confronting her. Demanding answers.

But what would he say?

What could he say?

He was supposed to be dead.

The world had moved on without him. Claire had moved on without him.

Or had she?

Ethan stopped pacing.

Something didn't add up.

The cart. The old pushcart. The handwritten sign. The apron covered in flour.

If Claire had truly moved on—if she had found another man, built a new life—why was she selling bread on the street?

She had been thrown out of their home. He knew that much from his own memories, from the way Margaret had spoken about her leaving.

Thrown out.

Not left.

Thrown out.

Ethan's mind raced, connecting dots he had been too hurt to see before.

Margaret had arrived at the house the day after the plane disappeared. Before the official death certificate. With lawyers. With relatives.

She had been prepared.

She had been waiting.

And the man at the cart...

Ethan replayed the scene in his mind.

The man had been handsome, yes. Well-dressed. But there was something about the way he had touched her. The kiss on the forehead.

It hadn't been romantic.

It had been... caring.

Gentle.

Like a brother.

Or a friend.

Ethan grabbed his jacket.

He had to go back.

He had to see more.

It was evening when he returned to the market. Most of the vendors were packing up. The crowd had thinned.

Claire's cart was still there.

She was alone now, wiping down the surfaces, putting things away. She moved slowly, carefully, one hand resting on her lower back.

Pregnant.

The thought hit Ethan like a thunderbolt.

She was pregnant.

He could see it now—the slight curve of her belly, the way she moved, the protective hand that kept drifting to her stomach.

How far along?

Seven months?

Eight?

Ethan did the math in his head.

The plane had crashed seven months ago.

If she was seven or eight months pregnant...

The baby was his.

It had to be.

Unless she had gotten pregnant immediately after the crash, which seemed impossible. Grief-stricken women don't jump into new relationships that fast. Not Claire.

Not his Claire.

Ethan's heart began to race for a different reason.

A baby.

Or...

He squinted, trying to see more clearly in the fading light.

She was bigger than she should be for a single baby at seven months. Much bigger.

Triplets.

The word appeared in his mind unbidden, and he didn't know why. But suddenly he was certain.

Claire was carrying his children. Three of them.

And she was selling bread on the street to survive.

Because his mother had thrown her out.

Rage burned through Ethan's veins, hot and white.

Margaret.

Vanessa.

They had done this.

They had thrown his pregnant wife out of their home. They had taken everything from her. They had lied to him when he woke up.

And the man from earlier?

Probably just someone who had been kind to her. Someone who had seen a struggling pregnant woman and offered friendship.

Ethan wanted to hit something. Wanted to scream. Wanted to find his mother and shake her until she confessed every terrible thing she had done.

But first, he needed to be sure.

He needed to hear it from Claire.

She finished packing the cart and began pushing it toward a side street. Ethan followed, keeping to the shadows, staying far enough back that she wouldn't see him.

She walked slowly, stopping every few minutes to catch her breath. One hand stayed on her belly the entire time.

She turned onto a narrow street lined with old apartment buildings. She stopped in front of one and leaned against the brick wall, exhausted.

A door opened.

The man from earlier stepped out.

He immediately went to Claire, his face full of concern. He said something Ethan couldn't hear. Claire shook her head and smiled, but it was a tired smile.

The man took the cart from her and wheeled it toward a small shed in the backyard. Then he returned and helped Claire up the stairs.

They disappeared inside.

Ethan stood in the shadows for a long time.

The apartment was small. Old. Nothing like the house they had shared in Buckhead.

His wife was living here. Pregnant with his children. Struggling to get by.

While his mother lived in their home. Controlled their company. Spent their money.

Ethan pulled his phone from his pocket—an old flip phone he had found in the lost and found at the bus station. He had bought minutes with the last of his cash.

He dialed a number he knew by heart.

Marcus.

His oldest friend. His college roommate. The best man at his wedding.

The phone rang twice.

“Hello?”

“Marcus.”

Silence.

Then: “Ethan?”