Whack!!!

The sting came before the sound—a sharp, burning sensation across my cheek that made my ears ring. In that fragmented second, I couldn't process what had happened. My body knew before my mind did, and I stumbled backward until my spine hit the wall of our immaculate kitchen.

James stood before me, his hand still suspended in the air. His eyes, those hazel eyes I'd fallen in love with, widened in horror at what he'd just done. We both froze in the awful silence that followed.

"Lily..." My name came out of his mouth like a plea.

My hand found my cheek, fingers trembling against the heated skin. Two months pregnant. After four years of trying. After twenty failed IVF treatments. After countless nights, I cried myself to sleep. After depression so deep I'd nearly drowned in it.

And he had just hit me.

"I didn't mean…" James stepped toward me, his voice breaking. "Baby, I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me."

I couldn't speak. My throat felt swollen shut. All I could do was press myself harder against the wall, as if I could somehow pass through it and escape this moment.

"Please say something," he begged, tears welling in his eyes. "It was the stress—the fight about the nursery colors. I haven't been sleeping. I would never hurt you intentionally, Lily. You know that."

Did I know that? The James I married four years ago would never have raised a hand to me. But the James standing before me now, with panic flooding his face, I didn't recognize him.

"I need a minute," I finally whispered, sliding along the wall toward the hallway.

"Don't leave," he said, not moving, but his eyes following me. "Please. We need to talk about this."

I hesitated, my hand protectively moving to my still-flat stomach. Our miracle. The baby we'd cried, prayed, and emptied our bank accounts for.

"I just hit my pregnant wife," James said, his voice hollow with disbelief. He sank to his knees on our polished hardwood floor, burying his face in his hands. "What kind of monster am I becoming?"

Something inside me softened at the sight of him breaking down. This was the man who had held me through every negative pregnancy test. Who had wiped away my tears after each failed implantation. Who had researched alternative treatments late into the night while I slept.

I moved toward him slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.

"It will never happen again," he promised, looking up at me with red-rimmed eyes. "I swear on my life, Lily."

I believed him. I had to. Because the alternative that the father of my unborn child, the love of my life, could be someone capable of hurting me was unthinkable.

"We're both exhausted," I said quietly, tentatively placing my hand on his shoulder. "It's been a long journey."

He captured my hand and pressed his lips to it. "I'll make it up to you. We'll get through this. I'll be better."

Later that night, lying beside him in our king-sized bed, I stared at the ceiling. James had fallen asleep quickly after his emotional breakdown, but sleep eluded me. My hand drifted again to my stomach, to the tiny life growing inside me.

"I'll protect you," I whispered into the darkness. "No matter what."

The next morning, I awoke to the smell of pancakes and the sound of James humming in the kitchen. When I walked in, he turned to me with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Good morning, beautiful," he said, sliding a plate of blueberry pancakes, my favorite, across the marble countertop. "How are my two favorite people feeling today?"

I forced a smile, accepting the peace offering. "Hungry."

As I ate, James talked about plans for the day. A meeting with an interior designer for the nursery. A stop at the bookstore for parenting books. Lunch at the new bistro downtown.

"And I made an appointment with Dr. Harrison," he said casually, refilling my orange juice.

I paused mid-bite. "The therapist?"

James nodded. "For me. I think... I think I need to talk to someone about my stress management. About what happened yesterday."

Relief washed over me. This was the James I knew, responsible, caring, willing to work on himself.

"That's a good idea," I said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.

He squeezed back. "I love you more than life itself, Lily. You and our baby are everything to me."

For a moment, I allowed myself to believe that yesterday had been exactly what he claimed, a terrible mistake, never to be repeated.

But as I showered and dressed for the day, I caught sight of my reflection. A faint bruise was forming on my cheekbone, and with it came a whisper of doubt that I couldn't quite silence.

Chapter 2: Lilly

Three weeks passed in a blur of prenatal vitamins, doctor appointments, and James's relentless attention. He brought me flowers every day: peonies on Monday, tulips on Tuesday, and roses on Wednesday. A routine of apology that neither of us acknowledged out loud.

Dr. Harrison's therapy seemed to be helping. James came home from each session quieter than usual but determined to talk about what he'd learned.

"It's about recognizing the triggers," he explained one evening as we lay in bed, his hand making gentle circles on my stomach. "The moment before the anger becomes uncontrollable."

I nodded, focusing on the feeling of his touch rather than the memory of that hand striking me.

"How was your lunch with Zoe?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Good," I said, grateful for the shift. "She's excited to be an aunt."

"Did you tell her about the baby?"

I hesitated. "Yes."

"Did you tell her about the other thing?" His voice dropped lower, his hand stilling on my stomach.

"No," I whispered. "There was nothing to tell. It was a one-time mistake."

His body relaxed beside mine. "Thank you for believing in me, Lily."

I turned toward him in the darkness. "Just don't make me regret it."

The next morning, I woke to an empty bed and the sound of James's voice drifting from his home office. I pulled on my robe and padded down the hallway, pausing outside his door.

"It's under control," he was saying, his tone clipped and professional, his business voice. "The property will be ready by the end of the quarter."

I was about to continue to the kitchen when his next words stopped me cold.

"She doesn't suspect anything. Why would she? She's too caught up in this pregnancy to notice."

My heart pounded painfully against my ribs. Who was he talking to? What didn't I suspect?

"Yes, I understand the risks," he continued. "But the payoff will be worth it."

I pushed the door open before I could think better of it.

James spun around in his leather chair, phone pressed to his ear. His expression shifted from surprise to irritation to a practiced smile in less than a second.

"I'll call you back," he said to whoever was on the other end, hanging up without waiting for a response. "Good morning, beautiful. How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," I said, hating the tremor in my voice. "Who were you talking to?"

He stood up smoothly, crossing the room to kiss my forehead. "Just business, sweetheart. A new development project that's been having some zoning issues."

"What don't I suspect?"

His smile didn't falter. "The surprise I've been planning for your birthday next month. One of my business partners almost spoiled it."

The explanation was perfectly reasonable. James was a successful real estate developer; secretive phone calls were part of his job. And he'd always loved surprising me for special occasions.

So why did unease crawl beneath my skin?

"You look pale," he said, concern creasing his brow. "Are you feeling okay? Morning sickness again?"

Before I could answer, my stomach lurched. I barely made it to the bathroom in time.

As I retched into the toilet, I felt James's presence behind me. His hand gathered my hair back from my face, his touch gentle.

"I hate seeing you like this," he murmured, rubbing my back.

When the nausea subsided, I slumped against the cool tile wall. James dampened a washcloth and pressed it to my forehead.

"Thank you," I managed to say.

"Always." His eyes softened. "You're carrying our miracle. The least I can do is hold your hair while you throw up."

The tenderness in his voice made tears spring to my eyes. This was the man I'd fallen in love with, caring, attentive, and kind.

"I think I need to lie down again," I said.

He helped me back to bed, tucking the blankets around me like I was something precious. As he turned to leave, I caught his wrist.

"James? Are you hiding something from me?"

He stiffened almost imperceptibly before sitting on the edge of the bed. "What makes you ask that?"

"I don't know. You seem... different lately."

His thumb traced over my knuckles. "I'm worried about you. About the baby. After everything we've been through to get here, I'm terrified something will go wrong."

The sincerity in his eyes made my suspicions seem foolish. "I'm scared too," I admitted.

"We'll get through this together," he said, bringing my hand to his lips. "Just like we've gotten through everything else."

After he left for work, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My hand drifted to the barely-there swell of my stomach.

"What do you think, little one?" I whispered. "Is your daddy telling the truth?"

The silence offered no answers.

Later that afternoon, my phone chimed with a text from James.

*Meeting running late. Don't wait up for dinner. Love you both.*

A familiar disappointment settled in my chest. Before our fertility struggles began, we'd made a point of eating dinner together every night, no matter how busy work got. Another small change in the shifting landscape of our marriage.

I was about to reply when a wave of dizziness hit me. The room tilted sideways, my vision blurring at the edges. I grabbed the counter for support, but my legs gave way beneath me.

As darkness closed in, my last coherent thought was of my baby.

The sterile smell of hospital disinfectant filled my nostrils as I blinked awake. For one terrifying moment, I thought I was back in the fertility clinic, about to hear that another treatment had failed.

"She's awake," someone said, and then James's face swam into view above me.

"Lily," he breathed, relief washing over his features. "Thank God."

"The baby?" My voice cracked with fear.

A doctor stepped into my line of sight. "Your baby is fine, Mrs. Collins.”

My body sagged with relief. "What happened?"

"Severe dehydration," the doctor explained. Combined with slightly low blood pressure. Not uncommon during the first trimester, but something we need to manage carefully."

James's hand tightened around mine. "You scared me to death. Mrs. Peterson found you passed out on the kitchen floor when she came to clean."

I tried to piece together my last memories. The text from James. The dizziness. The fall.

"I need you to take it easier," the doctor continued, making notes on her clipboard. "Plenty of fluids, regular small meals, and more rest."

James nodded solemnly. "I'll make sure of it."

The doctor smiled. "We'd like to keep you overnight for observation, but you should be able to go home tomorrow if all stays stable."

After she left, James pulled his chair closer to my bed. His eyes were red-rimmed, his usually impeccable appearance disheveled.

"I should have been there," he said, voice thick with emotion.

"You couldn't have known," I replied, though a part of me wanted to agree with him. Where had he been when I was collapsing alone in our kitchen?

He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm taking time off work. I'll work from home until you're feeling better."

"You don't need to do that."

"I do," he insisted. "My family comes first. Always."

The determination in his voice should have been comforting. Instead, it stirred that same unease I'd felt during his phone call that morning. There was something desperate in his devotion, something that felt like overcompensation.

A nurse bustled in to check my vitals, interrupting my thoughts.

"Your blood pressure's still a bit low," she commented. "Try to rest. No stressful conversations." She shot James a meaningful look.

When she left, an awkward silence fell between us.

"Do you want to watch some TV?" James finally asked, reaching for the remote.

I shook my head. "Tell me about your day instead."

He launched into a detailed account of his meetings, careful to keep his tone light and engaging. I let the familiar cadence of his voice wash over me, searching for any hint of deception.

"Oh, and I got a text from Zoe," he said casually. "She's planning to stop by tomorrow with some of your things."

My stomach clenched. "You told Zoe I'm in the hospital?"

"Of course. She's your best friend."

"What exactly did you tell her?"

His expression flickered with something I couldn't quite identify. "Just that you fainted from dehydration, and they're keeping you overnight as a precaution. Why?"

"No reason," I said quickly. "Just wondering how much she'll worry."

He studied me for a moment too long. "Is there something you don't want me to tell Zoe?"

The question hung between us, loaded with unspoken accusations.

"Of course not," I replied, forcing a smile. "I just hate making people worry."

He nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied with my answer. "You should rest. The doctor said stress isn't good for the baby."

My baby. The phrase made my protective instincts flare. Not our baby in that moment, but mine. The life I would protect at any cost.

As if reading my thoughts, James placed his hand gently on my stomach. "I can't wait to meet you, little one," he whispered. "Your mom and I have waited so long."

The tenderness in his voice made my eyes sting with tears. In that moment, he was the man I'd married, loving, gentle, and kind.

How could this be the same person who had struck me across the face just weeks ago?

When James finally left to grab dinner from the cafeteria, I reached for my phone on the bedside table. I scrolled to Zoe's number, my finger hovering over the call button.

What would I even say? *I think my husband is lying to me. I'm afraid of the father of my child.*

The words sounded paranoid even in my head. We'd been through so much together, the heartbreak of infertility, the emotional roller coaster of failed treatments. Was I looking for problems where there were none?

I set the phone down without calling.

As the night deepened, James dozed uncomfortably in the chair beside my bed, refusing to go home despite my insistence. I watched his sleeping face in the dim light, trying to reconcile the man I loved with the stranger he sometimes became.

"Mrs. Collins?" A night nurse poked her head in. "Time for your vitals."

As she checked my blood pressure, she chatted softly. "First baby?"

I nodded.

"You're in good hands here," she assured me, patting my arm. "And your husband hasn't left your side since you were admitted. That's real love right there."

I smiled tightly, not trusting myself to speak.

After she left, I turned toward the window, watching the city lights twinkle in the distance. Each one represented a home, a life, a story. How many of those stories resembled mine? How many women lie awake at night, wondering if the person they loved was becoming someone they should fear?

I placed my hand protectively over my stomach. "We'll figure this out," I whispered to my unborn child. "I promise."

But as sleep finally claimed me, the promise felt hollow, a desperate wish rather than a certainty.

The townhouse felt different when we returned the next day, smaller somehow, as if the walls had inched closer together during our absence. James hovered at my elbow as I climbed the front steps, his hand never leaving the small of my back.

"Easy does it," he murmured, as though I might shatter if I moved too quickly.

"I'm pregnant, not made of glass," I said, attempting humor but hearing the edge in my voice.

He didn't respond, just guided me toward the living room couch where he'd arranged pillows and blankets in a nest-like formation.

"I've got soup warming on the stove," he said, helping me sit. "And Mrs. Peterson stocked the fridge with those smoothies you like."

"Thank you." I settled into the pillows, watching him fuss around me. "Don't you have that big meeting today?"

He waved dismissively. "Rescheduled. Harrison can handle it."

"But the Westlake project…"

"Is not as important as you and the baby," he finished firmly. "Nothing is."

The conviction in his voice should have been comforting. Instead, it pricked at that nameless anxiety that had been growing inside me since his hand had connected with my cheek.

"You can't put your entire career on hold for eight more months," I said carefully.

His expression darkened momentarily before smoothing out into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Watch me."

The doorbell rang before I could respond. James tensed almost imperceptibly before moving to answer it.

"That must be Zoe," he said over his shoulder.

I straightened, fixing my face into what I hoped was a normal expression. Zoe had an uncanny ability to read my moods, a skill developed over two decades of friendship.

She breezed in moments later, arms laden with gift bags, James trailing behind her with an expression I couldn't quite decipher.

"You scared the hell out of me, Lily Collins!" she announced, dropping the bags to envelop me in a careful hug. "Fainting like some Victorian heroine."

I laughed despite myself. "Sorry about that. Pregnancy requires more water than I've been drinking."

Zoe pulled back to study my face, her eyes narrowing slightly. "You look exhausted."

"Hospital beds aren't exactly the Ritz," I said with a shrug.

James cleared his throat. "I'll get that soup now. Zoe, would you like some?"

"No thanks, I can't stay long. Just wanted to drop these off." She gestured to the bags. "Pregnancy essentials from someone who's been there twice."

When James disappeared into the kitchen, Zoe lowered her voice. "Are you okay?"

The concern in her eyes made my throat tighten. "I'm fine. Really."

"You'd tell me if you weren't, right?" She held my gaze, and I had the uncomfortable feeling she was seeing right through me.

"Of course," I lied.

She didn't look convinced but didn't press further. Instead, she began unpacking the gift bags of ginger candies for nausea, compression socks for swelling, and a body pillow for sleeping.

"And this," she said, pulling out a leather-bound journal, "is for all those pregnancy thoughts you won't want to say out loud. Trust me, there are many."

I ran my fingers over the smooth cover. "It's beautiful."

"Write everything down," she advised. "The good, the bad, the ugly. It helps."

James returned with a tray, three steaming bowls arranged neatly despite Zoe's refusal. "Changed my mind," he said with a tight smile. "You need to eat with us."

The command disguised as hospitality wasn't lost on any of us. Zoe raised an eyebrow but accepted the bowl.

"How's work?" I asked her, desperate to steer toward safer territory.

"Chaotic. The firm's taking on that class action against Meridian Pharmaceuticals."

"That's the one with the fertility drug, right?" James asked, his tone deliberately casual.

Zoe nodded. Hundreds of women experienced severe complications. Some life-threatening." She glanced at me before continuing. "It's a tough case, but important."

"Thank God we used reputable methods," James said, his hand finding mine and squeezing.

I smiled weakly, remembering the desperation that had driven us from clinic to clinic, treatment to treatment. The willingness to try anything, risk anything, for the chance at parenthood.

"Actually," Zoe said, setting her bowl down, "I wanted to ask about that experimental treatment you tried last year. The one in Chicago? We've got a client who's considering something similar."

James's grip on my hand tightened painfully. "That was a dead end," he said before I could respond. "Wouldn't recommend it to anyone."

I stared at him, confused. The Chicago treatment had been our twentieth attempt, the one right before our successful round. It had been expensive and emotionally draining, but not notably worse than the others.

"It wasn't that bad," I contradicted gently. "Dr. Weber was very thorough."

Something flashed in James's eyes, a warning I couldn't decipher.

"I remember differently," he said, his voice dangerously soft. "We agreed it was a mistake."

Had we? I couldn't recall such a conversation, but the past four years blurred together in a haze of hope and disappointment.

Zoe's gaze bounced between us, clearly sensing the tension. "Well, I should probably head back to the office," she said, standing abruptly. "Call me if you need anything, Lil. Anything at all."

"I'll walk you out," James said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

When they left, I sank back against the pillows, trying to make sense of James's reaction. Why would he lie about the Chicago treatment? What was he hiding?

My hand drifted to the journal Zoe had brought. Write everything down, she had said. The good, the bad, the ugly.

I reached for my purse and retrieved a pen.

*Dear Baby,* I wrote, the words flowing more easily than I'd expected. *I don't know what's happening with your father. I don't know if I'm imagining things or if there's something wrong. But I promise you this: I will figure it out. I will keep you safe. No matter what.*

The front door closed, and I quickly tucked the journal under the blanket as James returned.

"She means well," he said, settling beside me on the couch, "but Zoe always did have a way of tiring you out."

"She brought some nice things," I said carefully.

"Mmm." He reached for the remote. "Doctor said you need rest. Let's find something mindless to watch."

As he flipped through channels, I studied his profile, the strong jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the lips that could curve into the kindest smile or flatten into a hard line of anger.

"James," I said suddenly, "be honest with me. Are you hiding something about our fertility treatments?"

He went very still, his finger poised over the remote button. For a long moment, he didn't speak.

"Why would you ask that?" he finally said, his voice unnaturally even.

"Your reaction to Zoe's question. The way you cut me off. It was strange."

He turned to face me, his expression carefully arranged into concern. "I think the hospital stay has you confused, Lily. We both agreed the Chicago clinic was a nightmare. Dr. Weber practically treated you like a lab rat."

Had he? I searched my memory, trying to recall specific incidents. There had been extra blood draws, certainly. Some medication adjustments seemed aggressive. But "lab rat" felt extreme.

"I don't remember it being that bad," I insisted.

James sighed, taking my hand in his. "This is exactly why we don't talk about it. It upsets you too much." He kissed my knuckles. "Let's focus on the present. On our miracle."

The way he redirected the conversation was so smooth, so practiced, that I almost missed it. Almost.

"Why don't you want Zoe's client to try that treatment?" I pressed.

His eyes hardened for just a split second before softening again. "Because we spent twenty thousand dollars for nothing but pain. I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

We had spent close to that amount on several treatments. It wasn't an unusual figure in the world of fertility treatments.

"I thought you promised not to stress about anything," he continued before I could respond. "The doctor was very clear about what's best for the baby."

There it was again, the subtle manipulation wrapped in concern. Using our baby as a shield against my questions.

"You're right," I said, feigning surrender. "I'm just tired."

Relief washed over his features. "Why don't you take a nap? I'll be right here when you wake up."

As I closed my eyes, pretending to drift off, my mind raced with questions. What had happened in Chicago? What was James hiding? And most importantly, how could I find out without putting myself or my baby at risk?

Chapter 5: Lily

The journal became my sanctuary over the following weeks. While James worked in his home office, I poured my fears, suspicions, and memories onto its pages, trying to make sense of the fragments.

*April 17: James brought home roses again today. Said they reminded him of me, beautiful but delicate. The way he said "delicate" made my skin crawl. Like I'm something that might break if handled too roughly. Or something that already has.*

*April 20: Started going through old emails about our fertility journey. Found messages about the Chicago clinic, but nothing alarming. James caught me and got upset. Said it wasn't "healthy" to dwell on the past. Suggested we delete all the old treatment emails since they're "triggers." I pretended to agree but saved them to a separate account first.*

*April 22: Morning sickness is finally easing. Eight weeks pregnant today. Baby is the size of a raspberry, according to my app. James wants to start buying nursery furniture already. When I suggested waiting until the second trimester, he got that look, the one that comes before the storm. I gave in. We're going shopping this weekend.*

I closed the journal quickly as I heard James's footsteps approaching. By the time he entered the bedroom, I was scrolling innocently through my phone.

"How are my two favorite people?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Good," I smiled, the expression feeling foreign on my face. "The nausea's better today."

"That's wonderful." He placed a hand on my stomach, which had just begun to show the slightest curve. "I was thinking we could invite your parents for dinner next weekend. To celebrate making it almost through the first trimester."

My parents adored James. To them, he was the successful, charming son-in-law who had stood by their daughter through years of fertility struggles. The generous man who had spared no expense to give me the baby I so desperately wanted.

"That sounds nice," I said, not meeting his eyes.

"Great. I'll call them tomorrow." He paused, studying my face. "You seem distant lately."

I forced myself to look up, to meet his gaze. "Just tired. Growing a human is exhausting."

"Is that all?" he pressed, his thumb tracing circles on my wrist. A gentle touch that somehow felt like a warning.

"What else would it be?"

He shrugged, too casually. "I don't know. You've been spending a lot of time writing in that journal Zoe gave you."

My heart stuttered. "It helps me process everything. All the changes."

"What kind of things do you write about?"

I kept my expression neutral. "Symptoms. Feelings. Questions about parenthood. Nothing exciting."

"Can I read it sometime?" The question sounded innocent, but his eyes were watchful.

"It's private," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "Just silly pregnancy thoughts."

His grip on my wrist tightened almost imperceptibly. "We've never kept secrets from each other, Lily."

The irony of his statement might have made me laugh if fear wasn't closing my throat. "It's not secrets. It's just... personal."

For a moment, tension crackled between us. Then, like a switch being flipped, he smiled and released my wrist.

"I understand. Everyone needs their space." He stood up. "I'm going to make some calls. Want anything from the kitchen?"

"No, thank you," I managed to say.

After he left, I sat frozen on the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. He knew about the journal. Had he read it already? The thought made me feel violated, exposed.

I needed to hide it better. Or get it out of the house entirely.

My phone buzzed with a text from Zoe.

*Lunch tomorrow? My treat.*

I stared at the screen, an idea forming. Zoe was a lawyer. She dealt with evidence, with building cases, with protecting vulnerable clients. Maybe she could help me make sense of what was happening.

But what if I was wrong? What if I were letting pregnancy hormones and old insecurities turn me paranoid? James was under enormous pressure at work, with the pregnancy, and with his therapy. Was I being fair to him?

*Sounds great,* I texted back before I could change my mind. *Can you pick me up? James is going back to work tomorrow.*

Her response came immediately: *No problem. Noon work?*

I confirmed and set the phone down, a plan taking shape. I would bring the journal, show Zoe my concerns. She would either validate them or help me see where I was being irrational.

I needed an objective perspective from someone who loved me enough to tell me the truth.

That night, James was unusually attentive, massaging my feet, asking detailed questions about my day, and bringing up happy memories from our early relationship. It was as if he sensed my withdrawal and was trying to pull me back.

"Remember our first date?" he asked as we lay in bed. "That terrible Italian restaurant where the waiter spilled wine all over my shirt?"

I smiled despite myself. "And you took it off right there and wore your undershirt for the rest of the night."

"I was so desperate to impress you," he laughed, drawing me closer. "I would have sat there naked if it meant getting a second date."

"That definitely would have made an impression."

His hand traced the curve of my hip. "I knew that night you were the one. I told my brother I was going to marry you."

The memory should have warmed me. Instead, it made me sad for that younger version of myself, so confident in her choice, so certain of her future.

"I love you, Lily," James whispered against my hair. "More than anything in this world."

"I love you too," I replied automatically, the words feeling hollow.

His hand slipped under my nightgown, his touch gentle but insistent. I closed my eyes, trying to summon desire for this man I once couldn't get enough of.

"Is this okay?" he murmured, lips against my neck. "The doctor said it's safe."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Physical intimacy had been rare since the positive pregnancy test, a combination of my exhaustion and his apparent fear of hurting the baby. This sudden desire felt calculated, another form of control.

Afterward, he fell asleep with his arm draped possessively across my body. I lay awake, watching the digital clock tick through the early morning hours, planning what I would say to Zoe.

When dawn finally broke, I eased out of bed and crept to the bathroom. Standing under the hot spray of the shower, I rehearsed different versions of my story.

*My husband hit me once. No, twice. But he's getting help. He's controlling and secretive. I think he's lying about something important. I'm scared, but I don't know if I'm being rational. I'm eight weeks pregnant with the baby we fought so hard for. What do I do?*

None of the versions sounded right. None captured the tangled mess of love and fear, hope and suspicion that had become my life.

As I dressed, I heard James moving around in the kitchen. The smell of coffee and bacon wafted up the stairs, another peace offering, another display of devotion.

I tucked the journal into my purse and plastered on a smile before heading downstairs.

"There she is," James beamed, pulling out a chair for me. "I made your favorite breakfast sandwich. Decaf coffee, just how you like it."

"Thank you," I said, sitting down. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"Nothing's too much trouble for you," he replied, setting a plate in front of me. "Oh, I forgot to mention I ran into Zoe's assistant at the gym yesterday. Sounds like they're swamped with that pharmaceutical case. Probably working through lunch today."

My stomach dropped. "Oh?"

He nodded, sipping his coffee. "Poor girl looked exhausted. Said Zoe's been sleeping at the office."

Was he lying? Had he somehow seen our text exchange? Or was it just a coincidence?

"Actually," I said carefully, "Zoe texted last night. We're having lunch today."

James's mug paused halfway to his lips. "Is that so?"

"She's picking me up at noon." I took a bite of my sandwich, forcing myself to chew and swallow despite my churning stomach.

"That's odd," he said, setting his mug down with deliberate precision. "Given what her assistant told me."

"Maybe she managed to clear some time," I suggested, keeping my voice light. "You know Zoe always makes time for friends no matter how busy she is."

James studied me for a long moment. "What are you two planning to talk about?"

The question hung in the air between us. Something in his tone made my skin prickle.

"Just catching up," I said with a shrug, hoping it looked casual. "Girl stuff. Pregnancy symptoms she can commiserate with from when she had the twins."

He relaxed slightly, but his eyes remained watchful. "That's nice. I'm glad you have someone to talk to about all that."

"Me too." I glanced at the clock on the microwave at 8:37 AM. Hours still until Zoe would arrive.

"I have some calls to make before my first meeting," James said, standing. He leaned down to kiss my forehead. "Don't forget to take your prenatal vitamin."

"I won't."

His hand lingered on my shoulder, his grip just tight enough to feel deliberate. "And Lily? Remember what Dr. Morris said about stress. Be careful what kind of conversations you have with Zoe. She can be... intense."

The warning was clear beneath his concerned words. I swallowed hard. "I'll keep it light, I promise."

He smiled, seemingly satisfied with my answer. "That's my girl."

After he disappeared, I sat motionless at the kitchen table, my breakfast growing cold. My phone buzzed in my pocket, another text from Zoe.

*Slight change of plans. Can I pick you up at 11 instead? Just got out of a meeting that was supposed to take all morning.*

I glanced toward James's closed office door, then typed quickly: *Perfect. Actually, can we meet somewhere? I need to get out of the house.*

Her response came immediately: *Sure. Is the park by your place? We can grab takeout from that Thai place you like.*

*See you at 11. Don't tell anyone.*

I deleted our conversation thread immediately after sending that last message, my hands shaking slightly. I wasn't sure why I felt the need for such secrecy. James knew about the lunch, but something deep inside me, some primal instinct for self-preservation, was screaming that caution was necessary.

At 10:30, I knocked on James's office door.

"Come in," he called, his voice carrying that crisp business tone he used during work hours.

I poked my head in. "Zoe texted. She can meet earlier, so I'm going to head out."

He frowned slightly. "I thought she was picking you up at noon."

"Her schedule cleared up," I said smoothly. "I'm going to walk to meet her. Get some fresh air."

"I don't think you should be walking that far in your condition," he said, already reaching for his keys. "Let me drive you."

"It's four blocks, James," I laughed, the sound brittle even to my ears. "The doctor said gentle exercise is good for me, remember?"

He hesitated, clearly torn between controlling the situation and maintaining his role as the concerned, supportive husband.

"At least let me walk with you," he suggested.

"Don't be silly. You have meetings." I stepped into the office and kissed his cheek, playing the role of adoring wife. "I'll be fine. I have my phone if I need you."

For a moment, I thought he would insist. Then his phone rang, saving me from further argument.

"Collins," he answered sharply, his eyes still fixed on me.

I mouthed "I love you" and backed out of the room before he could end the call and stop me.

Outside, the spring air felt like freedom against my face. I walked briskly, one hand clutching my purse where the journal sat heavy like a confession. With each step away from our townhouse, my resolve strengthened.

Zoe was already waiting at the park entrance when I arrived, her long red hair pulled back in a professional bun that contrasted with her worried expression.

"You look like hell," she said by way of greeting, pulling me into a hug.

"Thanks," I replied with a weak smile. "Just what every pregnant woman wants to hear."

She studied my face. "What's going on, Lil? Your text seemed urgent."

I glanced around the busy park. "Can we walk? I don't want to sit in one place."

"Sure." She fell into step beside me. "Now spill. You're scaring me."

I took a deep breath, suddenly unsure where to begin. "I need to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me."

"Always."

"That day at the hospital, when you saw me... did you notice anything strange?"

She hesitated. "What do you mean by strange?"

"About me. About James. About how we were with each other."

Zoe stopped walking, turning to face me directly. "Lily, what's this about?"

Instead of answering, I opened my purse and pulled out the journal. "I need you to read this. Not all of it, but the parts I've marked."

She took the book hesitantly. "Here? Now?"

I nodded, my throat too tight for words.

We found a bench partially hidden by rhododendron bushes. As Zoe read, her expression shifted from confusion to concern to something darker.

"Lily," she finally said, closing the journal gently. "Has he hit you more than those two times?"

The direct question made me flinch. "No. He's been careful since then. But the control, the lies... It's getting worse."

"And you think he's hiding something about your fertility treatments?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'm paranoid. But why would he lie about the Chicago clinic? And that phone call I overheard..." I twisted my hands in my lap. "Am I crazy, Zoe?"

She shook her head firmly. "You're not crazy. What you're describing sounds like textbook gaslighting. Making you doubt your memory, controlling your conversations, isolating you..."

"But he's been so supportive through everything. All the treatments, all the disappointments. He spent a fortune trying to give me this baby."

"Abusers aren't monsters 100% of the time, Lil. That's what makes it so confusing." She took my hand. "What do you want to do?"

The question I'd been avoiding for weeks hung between us. What did I want to do? Leave the father of my unborn child? Stay and hope the violence didn't escalate? Neither option seemed bearable.

"I don't know," I admitted. "But I need to find out what he's hiding first. About Chicago, about that phone call. I need to know what I'm dealing with."

Zoe's lawyer face clicked into place, focused, analytical. "I can help with that. The firm has investigators we use for case research. Completely confidential."

"You'd do that for me?"

"In a heartbeat." Her expression softened. "But Lily, you need to be prepared for what they might find. And you need a safety plan in the meantime."

"A safety plan?" The words made this all suddenly, terrifyingly real.

"Somewhere to go if things escalate. Money he can't access. Important documents secured." She squeezed my hand. "Just precautions. Hopefully you'll never need any of it."

I nodded numbly, trying to process that this was my life now, secret investigations and escape plans from the man I had once trusted with my whole heart.

"One more thing," Zoe said quietly. "I need your permission to photocopy this journal. It might be important evidence later."

Evidence. As if my marriage had become a crime scene.

"Okay," I whispered.

"I'll get these back to you tomorrow," she promised, carefully placing the journal in her bag. "And Lily? Don't confront him about any of this. Not until we know more."

"I won't."

She checked her watch and grimaced. "I have court in an hour. Let me drive you home."

Panic flared in my chest. "No. If James sees your car..."

"Right." She nodded, understanding immediately. "Can you get an Uber?"

"I'll walk. The fresh air helps with nausea."

She didn't look convinced but didn't argue. "Call me when you get home. And Lily? Be careful."

As I watched her walk away, her warning echoed in my head. Be careful. As if I hadn't been walking on eggshells for weeks already.

The walk home felt longer, my feet dragging with each step that brought me closer to our townhouse. To James. To the life that was starting to feel like a beautiful prison.

When I turned onto our street, I noticed James's car was gone from the driveway. Relief washed over me for a few more hours of peace before I had to resume my role as the adoring, unsuspicious wife.

I let myself in through the front door, the quiet of the empty house wrapping around me like a comfort blanket. In the kitchen, I found a note propped against the fruit bowl.

*Had to run to the office for an emergency meeting. Backed by 3. Rest. Love you both. -J*

The "both" made my stomach clench, his way of reminding me that any decision I made now affected our child too. A subtle manipulation that had worked so effectively until now.

I climbed the stairs slowly, exhaustion weighing on me. In our bedroom, I kicked off my shoes and lay down, my hand automatically finding the slight swell of my stomach.

"What am I going to do?" I whispered to my unborn child.

The silence offered no answers, but as I drifted into an uneasy sleep, one thought crystallized with perfect clarity: whatever James was hiding, I needed to find it before I could decide my next move.

And I needed to be very, very careful while I looked.