Divorcing the Heiress? Bad Idea.

The afternoon light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our living room, casting a warm glow across the cream-colored carpet.

I sat on the edge of the sofa, one hand resting protectively on my rounded belly, while Sarah, our nanny, knelt beside two strollers we'd been considering for the past hour.

"This one has better suspension," Sarah said, gesturing to the sleek navy model. "Perfect for the park trails."

I ran my fingers along the handle of the silver one, imagining myself pushing it down tree-lined paths, Evan walking beside me, our baby cooing contentedly. Six months pregnant, and I could already picture our future so clearly—weekend mornings at the farmer's market, the three of us, complete.

"But this one folds more compactly," I murmured, testing the mechanism. "Evan always says we should maximize trunk space."

The sound of the front door opening made my heart lift. I turned, a smile already forming on my lips as Evan stepped inside, his briefcase in hand, tie slightly loosened.

Finally.

My husband'd been working late all week, and I'd missed these quiet moments together.

"Evan!" I called out, my voice bright with genuine delight. "Perfect timing. Come help us choose."

He paused in the entryway, his expression unreadable as his gaze swept from me to the strollers, then back again.

Something flickered across his face—was it irritation? No, impossible. We never fought.

"We're deciding between these two," I continued, gesturing between them with an enthusiasm I hoped would be contagious. "I think the silver one is more practical, but the navy is so beautiful. What do you think? Which one do you see our baby in?"

Evan set his briefcase down with a deliberate slowness that made my stomach tighten. He didn't look at the strollers. He didn't look at Sarah. His eyes fixed on me with an intensity that felt wrong, felt cold.

I suddenly shivered.

"Lia," that was when he called my name, his voice flat and emotionless. "I want a divorce."

The words hung in the air like smoke, shapeless and surreal. I blinked, my smile frozen on my face, unable to process what I'd just heard. Behind me, I heard Sarah's sharp intake of breath.

"What?" The word came out barely above a whisper.

"I want a divorce," he repeated, each syllable measured and final.

My hand moved instinctively to my belly, as if to shield our baby from the incomprehensible.

This had to be a joke. A terrible, tasteless joke. We didn't fight. We didn't even argue. Just last week, he'd helped me paint the nursery a soft shade of yellow. Two weeks ago, we'd attended a dinner party at my sister Margaret's estate, and he'd held my hand the entire evening.

"I don't—" My voice cracked. I cleared my throat, forcing myself to stand, one hand braced against the armrest for support. The weight of my pregnancy made the movement awkward, vulnerable. "I don't understand. Is this... are you joking?"

But even as I asked, I