Chapter 1

Seven months pregnant, my husband, Ethan, suddenly suggested I move back in with my mom for a while to rest.

"Your mom’s cooking is way better than mine, and it’s better for your health right now."

It sounded incredibly thoughtful.

Until my mom called me one afternoon. "Chloe, since when did a flower shop open right at the entrance of your gated community? The owner is a pretty young girl."

I didn't say a word. I just got into a cab and headed straight back to our apartment, my heavy belly weighing me down.

I slid my key into the lock. The door was bolted from the inside.

When it finally opened, Ethan stood there in his loungewear. Behind him, the sweet scent of osmanthus drifted through the air—a fragrance I was highly allergic to, one that was strictly banned in our home.

He blocked the doorway, a flash of panic crossing his face for a split second.

"Why are you back? I thought you were staying at Helen’s until the baby was born?"

I didn't step inside. I just looked down at the shoe rack by the door.

There was a new pair of canvas sneakers. Size 7.

I wear a size 9.

"Ethan, you didn't send me to my mom's so I could rest," I said, my voice dead calm. "You did it to clear the space."

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

I turned around, walked back into the elevator, and dialed my lawyer.

"Chloe, are you sure you want to take legal action?"

In the elevator mirror, my lawyer Clara’s voice came through the receiver, steady and professional as always.

"I’m sure."

I stared at my reflection. My lips were dry, my eyes were dry, and there wasn't a single tear. My seven-month pregnant belly pushed against my coat, stretching the zipper into a sharp curve.

The elevator reached the lobby. The doors slid open.

I didn't move.

Clara said, "Alright. Where are you now?"

"In the elevator."

"Find a place to sit down first. You shouldn't be walking too fast right now. We'll meet face-to-face tomorrow. Tonight, use your Notes app. Write down everything you saw, heard, and smelled—the time, the place, the details. The more specific, the better."

"Got it," I said, hung up, and stepped out of the elevator.

The wind outside was freezing. I stood by the curb waiting for an Uber. For three minutes, I didn't think about anything. I just stared at the streetlights in the distance.

I thought about those size 7 sneakers. White soles, blue trim, toes pointing outward, resting on the second shelf—where my slippers used to be.

The car arrived.

The driver took one look at my belly, quietly moved his jacket from the back seat to make room for me, and drove off. The neighborhood gates faded into the night.

The sign of that flower shop was still glowing.

"Blooming Daisy." Two words in warm yellow neon. It looked quite pretty in the dark.

I remembered Ethan suggesting I move to my mom's a month ago. The first week, he said, "Your mom's chicken soup is much better than mine." The second week, he said, "I worry about you being home alone while I'm at work." By the third week, he had packed a suitcase for me, loaded it into his trunk, and even neatly folded my favorite grey hoodie.

At the time, I thought he was being incredibly caring.

The GPS chimed as the driver made a left turn. Streetlights flashed past.

I opened my Notes app and began typing:

"8:47 PM. Door bolted from inside. Osmanthus diffuser active—I am allergic; we never use this. Second shelf of shoe rack: size 7 canvas sneakers, white soles with blue trim, facing outward. Ethan wearing loungewear, panicked for a second."

I paused at "panicked for a second."

Seven years. We met during my junior year of college. This was our seventh year. I knew every single one of his expressions. When he was happy, the corners of his eyes softened first. When he was impatient, his index finger tapped the table. When he lied, his smile was a beat slower than usual.

That one second of panic was the look of the Ethan I knew admitting defeat.

The car pulled up to Mom's building.

I paid the fare and walked inside. I had to stop on the third floor to catch my breath—my belly was pressing against my diaphragm, making climbing stairs exhausting.

I knocked.

Mom was in the kitchen, apron still on, spatula in hand. She froze when she saw me. "I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow?"

"I came early."

She looked at me, didn't ask any questions, set the spatula down, washed her hands, and brought out a plate of sliced apples.

I sat on the couch and took a bite. It was crisp.

Mom sat beside me and started peeling an orange. Halfway through, she asked, "Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

I hadn't.

She saw right through it but didn't call me out. She stood up to reheat some food.

I sat there, listening to the sizzle of the pan, the hum of the exhaust fan, and the occasional car passing by outside.

Everything was so normal. Just like any other night I came over for dinner.

In bed that night, my phone buzzed.

It was a text from Ethan: "Did you make it to Helen's? Get some rest. I'll come see you tomorrow."

Sent at 1:10 AM.

He used to go to bed at eleven sharp. Early sleep was a habit he never broke.

I stared at the words for a while, didn't reply, locked my phone, and put it on my pillow.

The room was dark, save for a sliver of orange streetlamp light cutting through the curtains onto the ceiling.

I placed my hand on my stomach. The baby didn't move. She was probably asleep.

*Ethan, why did you really want me to leave?*

I didn't say it out loud. I just thought it as the line of light on the ceiling lingered.