Then I went home to my husband.
Victor was waiting in the kitchen with champagne.
It sat sweating in a silver bucket beside two glasses, as if he already knew what my ultrasound had revealed. His mother, Claudine, sat at the counter in pearls. Lila stood by the window, one hand resting lightly over her flat stomach.
My baby’s heartbeat still echoed in my bones.
Victor smiled. “Well?”
I set my purse on the table. “I’m pregnant.”
For one perfect second, every mask slipped.
Lila’s mouth parted. Claudine’s glass paused midair. Victor’s smile froze like brittle plaster.
Then he recovered.
“At forty-five?” he said softly, cruelly. “Mara, are you sure?”
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