Three Months Later.

The morning starts the same as the ones before it. Breakfast arrives on a tray, still warm. The nurse comes in, checks my blood pressure and temperature, writes a few notes, and leaves with a polite smile. 

I make coffee the way I always do, carry the mug to the couch, and turn on the news more out of habit than real interest. The sound of the reporter soon fills the quietness. 

I am halfway through a sip when I hear the name Lucien and Celeste Cross. I look up just as a headline scrolls across the bottom of the screen. 

My jaw drops. 

Lucien Cross files for divorce from Celeste Laurent Cross, citing irreconcilable differences. 

I just stare, awestruck. 

The screen fills with photographs of them together with a split in the middle. Lucien and Celeste at charity galas, at award events. Always elegant. Always side by side. 

The reporter drones about them in detail, their fairytale wedding, the rocky conflicts and rifts between their families and how they’d held on. 

I quickly grab my phone and scroll through social media. It’s already a trending topic, on every blog, every headline. People are vastly talking about it, some already speculating while longtime fans mourn the break up. 

I swallow thickly, unease crawling through me. 

What happened?? 

They had seemed just fine the last I saw them. They’d been over just four days ago — Celeste beaming with her usual soft voice and dazzling smile and Lucien reserved as always, but warm. 

There was no anger between them. No tension. Nothing that could have warned me of this. 

I set my phone down carefully, still shaken by the news. My hand subconsciously drifts to my stomach. I am three months pregnant. 

And the child’s parents are getting divorced. What does this mean for the child? What does it mean for me? 

The contract had been with both of them. The money is my way out of debt. My last hope. 

But it seems now, that will be taken away from me. I will have to start over again — maybe even bend for Thomas. 

I stand up and walk toward the window — my safe haven. I rest my forehead against the glass for a moment and just listen to my heart crack. 

For the rest of the day, I sit there, crying silently. 

— 

By late afternoon the keylock unlocks. I am still sitting by the window, my cheeks streaked with tears. 

Celeste comes in looking pale but composed. Her hair is still neatly brushed. Her clothes perfect. 

I start to wonder if I am the one getting the divorce. As she nears me, her scent wraps around me. And I quickly find out how appearances can be deceiving. Her usual warm vanilla-peach scent is faintly soured today, dampened by grief. 

She toes her heels off and drops onto the floor in front of me, taking both of my hands in hers. Her grip is firm and steady. 

“How are you?” Her voice cracks and I hear her pain in every syllable. 

My eyes fill with tears again. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. 

She swallows a sob, nodding her head fast. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” 

I am quiet. 

Then she looks out the window, staring at something in the distance. I just watch her beautiful face struggle to stay strong. 

“Nothing changes for you,” she says after a moment. “You will still be taken care of, as promised. The baby will be taken care of. I just need you to promise me… you won’t let this affect you. This is between Lucien and me.” 

I nod, a small flicker of hope sparking in me. “Thank you,” I say, voice thick. 

She nods again. Then turns her focus back to the window. 

It becomes quiet after that. I study her features and my mind still reels with all the possibilities. 

Where had it all gone wrong? 

“You seemed happy,” I say, referring to the past. 

Celeste doesn’t look at me. But she smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “We were good at seeming,” she answers. 

My heart cracks. 

Then her gaze finally meets mine. “Take a rest, okay? I’ll handle the rest.” 

She gets up, helps me up to my feet and leads me to the couch, back to her doting nature. 

She stays an extra twenty minutes. She asks if I have eaten. She asks if the nurse came on time. She rests her hand once more on my belly, though this time her touch lingers for longer than usual. 

Then she stands, squeezes my hands again, and leaves. 

When the door closes the condo feels colder. The quiet rushes back in like cold air. I sit in the middle of the living room for a long time, staring at the place where she had been, the way she’d just quietly accepted it. 

Somehow, I can sense, the worst is far from over.