My head is like a windshield, splintering glass that is so vulnerable, it may shatter in an instant.

The cracks pop and creak, my brain rattling around like a passenger being thrown from the car.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I murmur, even the sound of my own voice blistering my body.

So this is what the bottom of the whiskey bottle looks like at thirty-five, huh? I should have stopped at highball number three last night, but then Imogen came home and the whole thing had gone to shit.

Imogen.

Flashes of last night swim in my head like drunken regrets, and I can’t grasp at a whole memory to see what I said to her. But from the way my stomach is rolling with nausea, rage, and sorrow … I just know it can’t be good.

Getting up, I make it to the hallway before I bend over and wretch. Fucking hell. That’s another mess I’ll have to clean up.

The image of me swaying toward my soon-to-be ex-wife is hazy, but it’s there. Jeez, I’d been taunting her, using her breeding against her.

The memory stays with me, and I know she refused. What had I said then? Slumping down until my back hits the bannisters of the second-floor stair railing, I squeeze my eyes shut to will it to the forefront of my brain.

My head feels like it’s about to crack open in two, but I push past the massive migraine threatening and latch onto the scene of last night.

Her eyes.

That look.

The one of being caught totally red-handed while at the same time being metaphorically slapped across the face.

I shoot straight up, hangover agony be damned, because I know what I saw in those green eyes.

The truth.

Imogen had been telling the truth, finally. She couldn’t drink. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to.

It was that she was pregnant.

“Mr. Walsh!” Michaela, Imogen’s secretary, squeaks with surprise as I barge into her office.

“You weren’t going to tell me, were you!” I point an accusatory finger at my wife.

“Let me call you back,” Imogen says calmly into the receiver of her phone and then gently hangs it up.

Only then does she turn her attention to me. “Theo, you can’t just barge in here—”

“No more avoiding.” I probably look like a crazy person, waving my finger in her face.

But at this point, I don’t care. She’s been lying to me, probably has been from the moment she walked out on me. Was she pregnant then? Did she know? Was her plan to leave me behind because things had just gotten too difficult between the two of us?”

“You were just going to let me go back to Nantucket and never find out that I had a child!” I scream in frustration, my fingers twisting in my matted, dirty locks.

Imogen at least has the decency to look guilty. “Will you keep your voice down? No one knows.”

I have to clamp my lips shut and take three long draws of air in through my nose to get my blood pressure back under control.

Across the desk, she’s gathering her things and standing up. It’s only now that I realize she’s wearing a blouse with a forgiving flow to it. And the sex … that’s why she wanted to keep her T-shirt on. That’s why it felt different to me.

We know each other so intimately that my cock could tell when her pussy felt differently. The thought has my spine tingling and my balls drawing up. Jesus Christ, not now, little Theo.

“Let’s go somewhere to talk about this.” Imogen is cool as a cucumber as she leads me out of her office and down to the parking lot. “Meet me at home.”

My legs pump with adrenaline as I try not to sprint to my car in the visitor’s lot. Imogen is pregnant, she’s pregnant.

Thoughts fly in a million directions around my brain as I navigate toward our house.

We’re having a baby.

We finally got pregnant.

How could she keep this from me?

What does this mean for the state of our marriage?

It takes all of the strength in me not to kick down the front door and demand answers from my wife once I park in the driveway.

Imogen is already inside, putting on the teapot as she kicks out of her heels, sighing when her stockinged feet hit the hardwood.

I take a shaky breath. “Can you please explain?”

Those eyes, the color of bright emeralds, fix on me. Imogen drops onto a stool and motions for me to sit across the island.

“I wasn’t feeling well, even before I packed my things and left. I attributed it to the extreme emotional state I was in, but it just kept getting worse and worse. I’d wake up and get sick, and it would last throughout the day. And when I started spotting, I thought maybe I had a cyst or something more severe happening with my reproductive system, so I went to see Dr. Katz. Who then let me know that I was eight weeks pregnant. I hadn’t even thought about it … because of course it shouldn’t have been a possibility. After all of those rounds of IVF and trying to get pregnant naturally, the miscarriages … this baby is a miracle.”

Tears prick my eyes, because she’s right. This baby is a miracle. “So you’re how far along?”

“Almost twenty weeks. Dr. Katz says the baby is doing great, ten fingers, ten toes. No sign of birth defects or down syndrome, and all of my bloodwork has been coming back normal.”

“And you, how are you feeling?” I look at her skin, the flawless glow she’s emitting. I should have guessed.

Imogen smiles, nodding. “Pretty great, actually. I feel like I have more energy than I did in the first trimester, and I’m not nauseous anymore. Nesting hasn’t kicked in because I’ve barely bought a thing, which is so unlike me. I felt the baby kick for the first time the other week, and my feet are so sore, they feel like weights. My back hurts if I stand too long, but otherwise, I feel really good.”

“Was the pregnancy the reason you wanted to have sex the other night?” It’s only fair to ask. And if you can’t discuss the out-of-left-field sex with your wife, who can you discuss it with?

Imogen blushes, smiling sheepishly. “Partly? Sorry, I’ve just had double the hormones pumping through me. That’s not to say I don’t still find you attractive, because clearly I do …”

That has me smirking. “Oh, yeah?”

The whistle of the teapot interrupts us, and she pours two steaming cups before turning back to me.

Now for the hard question. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

She takes a sip and then levels me with her gaze. “I … I don’t know that there is an easy answer to that. I wanted to, but at the same time, I didn’t. It’s my body, what was happening to me felt sacred, and I didn’t want to jinx it. We’ve had so much heartbreak, part of me thought that if I didn’t say anything out loud, I had a better chance of keeping this pregnancy. And then, with us separating and all of the secrecy around it and having to parade our marriage in front of my family’s inner circle … it just seemed like one more wrench to throw into everything. There were so many times that I almost told you, but I was afraid. This changes a lot, Theo.”

Anger ripples through me. “That is my child you’re carrying. You know better than to expect me not to be fully invested in his or her life.”

“And I would never keep you from the honor of being this baby’s father. But I don’t know quite yet what means for us.”

I did. I’d known even before I was aware that we were pregnant. I knew from the moment she walked out the door that I wanted her back. Even if I was stubborn and said hurtful things, I am never going to want anyone else.

“After what you said to me last night … Theo, it seems as though things just keep getting in the way of our happiness. If it’s not life throwing us a curveball, it’s the two of us ourselves.”

I hang my head in shame. “I was drunk, and that’s not an excuse … but I never should have said that. I sunk the easiest, lowest blow because I was lashing out in anger. I apologize for that, Imogen. I know that sorry is only a word, but you know that I mean this.”

We sit, staring at each other over our teacups, for a few beats of silence.

“I do know that. But it doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

“We’re having a baby.” I breathe in wonder.

“Yeah, we are.” Her smile splits her face wide open in an expression of pure happiness.

“You don’t know the gender yet?”

She shakes her head. “The appointment is next week. If you want, maybe we could go together?”

The answer rolls off my tongue before she even stops talking. “Yes. Absolutely.”

A cell phone vibrates on the marble countertop, and we both look to see whose it is.

“Oh no. No …” Imogen looks down at her phone as she worries her bottom lip between her teeth.

“What is it?”

She holds the phone up, showing me the text.

Morgan Weston: Theo was served the divorce papers in front of his entire office. We need to do damage control. You two will attend the charity dinner tomorrow night and show society that your marriage is completely fine.

“As if he wasn’t the one who talked to the lawyers without my permission.” She rolls her eyes. “And now we have to act in his monkey show because of the mess he caused. I’m getting so tired of this.”

Imogen’s talking to herself more than she’s saying all of this to me, but I keep my mouth shut on the subject. I’ve been waiting five years for her to wise up about her family’s ridiculous antics, and she’s almost there. But this is one conclusion she’s going to have to reach on her own terms.

“Well … we may have one more problem where Toxell is concerned.” Not that I want to bring this up now, but we are laying all of the cards out on the table.

“Huh?” Imogen puts her phone down.

“The reason I got so drunk last night? Well, besides the fact I was served divorce papers. I, uh, I quit the firm.”

She blinks. And then blinks again. “You what?”

I scratch my beard. “I quit my job, straight to Nathan’s face in front of everyone. Packed up and walked out, no two weeks’ notice.”

The kitchen is silent for a full thirty seconds.

And then Imogen lets out the loudest laugh I’ve ever heard. “Oh, thank God. You were so miserable there, God you were so unhappy. I should have told you to quit that job three years ago … you hated it. And I can’t stand Nathan, he’s a pig.”

Shock slams through me. “So, you’re not disappointed that I don’t have some fancy job at a Weston-approved company?”

She chuckles. “Oh, not at all! I thought you wanted to work your way up there so you stayed even though everyone in that place annoyed you so much. I knew you hated it, but I thought you wanted to … I don’t know, learn and make connections?”

“I took that job for you. And I stayed there as long as I did, for you.”

The teacup she’s holding clatters down onto the counter. “I … Theo … I’m sorry. I know you sacrificed, but I’m not sure I really ever knew how much.”

It’s a relief to hear her say that, but I don’t want to get into all of that right now. I want to revel in the fact that we’re having a baby.

“I never minded the sacrifice … well, not so much really. Which is why we’ll go to the charity dinner, and not just because you need to save face. But because I’m telling you that this is not over. I’m not signing those papers, and I’m not done fighting.”