My Wedding Became Their Baby Announcement

I traced my fingertip along the edge of a white peony, admiring how it complemented the pale blue hydrangeas in the centerpiece. The Hamptons estate glowed in the late morning light, the pre-wedding brunch in full swing on the sprawling lawn outside. Everything was perfect—almost suspiciously so.

"The florist outdid herself," my mother, Catherine, said, adjusting a bloom with her manicured fingers. "Though I still think the roses would have made a stronger statement."

I smiled tightly. "The peonies are perfect, Mother. They're softer... more romantic."

Mother's eyes narrowed slightly, her perpetual assessment never quite reaching approval. "Well, it's your wedding, darling. Though the Fosters have certain expectations."

Don't we all, I thought, scanning the room for Michael. He stood near the French doors, phone in hand, brow furrowed. When he caught my gaze, he offered a quick, distracted smile before returning to his screen.

That was the third time today. Something was off.

"Michael seems preoccupied," I murmured.

Mother followed my gaze. "Pre-wedding jitters, nothing more. Your father was the same way—couldn't string two sentences together the day before our wedding." She squeezed my arm. "Now, about the seating arrangement for the Whitmores..."

I nodded, only half-listening as I watched Michael excuse himself from a conversation with his groomsmen and disappear inside. The knot in my stomach tightened.

---

The bridal suite was silent save for the ticking of the antique clock on the mantel. I'd slipped away after dinner, exhausted by the endless socializing and increasingly troubled by Michael's behavior. All day, he'd been short, distracted, checking his phone obsessively.

"Just work stress," he'd claimed when I'd finally cornered him. "Nothing for you to worry about." Then he'd kissed my forehead—not my lips—and moved away to charm Eleanor's bridge club friends.

I sank onto the plush window seat, kicking off my heels. Tomorrow, I'd be Mrs. Michael Foster. The thought should have filled me with joy, not this creeping unease.

My phone chimed with a text from the wedding planner: *Need final approval on seating charts. Michael said they're in his email?*

I sighed. Michael had promised to handle that days ago. His laptop was in our shared suite, but his phone would be faster. He'd left it charging on the nightstand when he went for a late cigar with his father.

The passcode was my birthday—a detail that had once seemed romantic. Four digits, and I was in.

I opened his email app, but a notification banner slid down from the top of the screen. A text from Quinn: *Baby and I miss you. Last night was worth the risk.*

My fingers went numb. The phone nearly slipped from my grasp.

Another text appeared: *Delete these messages. A is suspicious.*

A. Me. I was "A."

With trembling hands, I opened the full conversation. Scrolled up. And up. Months of messages. Explicit photos. Plans for secret meetings.

And references to "the baby."

Quinn was pregnant. With Michael's child.

My best friend and my fiancé.

The door clicked open.