After His Daughter Targeted Me, I Wanted a Divorce

I sat on the bathroom floor, legs crossed, staring at the plastic stick in my hand. Two pink lines. Clear. Unmistakable.

Pregnant.

The word felt too big for my mouth. I pressed my palm against my stomach, flat and unchanged, and started crying. Not sad crying. The kind that comes when something you've wanted so badly it hurt finally happens.

Two years. Two years of hoping every month, of disappointment, of Roman holding me when I cried and saying, "It'll happen when it's meant to." And now it had.

I stood up, legs shaky, and looked at myself in the mirror. My face was blotchy. Mascara smudged under my eyes. I looked a mess, but I was smiling so hard my cheeks ached.

Roman. I had to tell Roman.

I checked my phone. Three missed calls to him, all unanswered. He was on a business trip to Boston, some acquisition deal that had kept him away for three days. He'd said he'd be back tonight. I glanced at the time. Six-thirty. He should be landing soon.

I wanted to do this right. Not over the phone. Not rushed. I wanted to see his face when I told him. I wanted to watch him light up the way he did when something made him truly happy.

I went to the kitchen and started cooking. His favorite — pan-seared salmon with lemon butter, roasted asparagus, garlic mashed potatoes. The kind of meal I only made for special occasions. The evening light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our penthouse, turning everything gold. Manhattan stretched out below, the city humming with life.

I found a small gift box in the closet, the kind you'd use for jewelry. I wrapped the pregnancy test in tissue paper and placed it inside. My hands were trembling. I set it on the dining table next to the candles I'd arranged.

Perfect.

I called Roman again. Straight to voicemail.

"Hey, it's me. I know you're probably still on the plane, but… I made dinner. Come home soon, okay? I have something to tell you."

I hung up and paced the living room, too excited to sit still. I kept touching my stomach, like I could feel something different there already. I couldn't. But I knew. I knew everything had changed.

The elevator chimed at eight-fifteen.

I spun toward the foyer, my heart pounding. The doors slid open.

Roman stepped out. Dark suit, tie loosened, his carry-on bag slung over one shoulder. He looked tired. But that wasn't what made me freeze.

He was holding a child's hand.

A little girl stood next to him, maybe eight years old. Pale skin. Straight brown hair that hung limp around her shoulders. She wore a faded pink hoodie and jeans with holes in the knees. In her other hand, she clutched a stuffed rabbit, its fur matted and gray.

She stared at me with wide, unblinking eyes.

"Aurora," Roman said quickly, stepping forward. "I know this looks—"

"Who is this?" My