As the first contraction rippled through me, I stood in the kitchen, gripping a glass of water that slipped from my hand and exploded into pieces across the tile.
“Liam,” I whispered, one hand pressed against my stomach. “Something isn’t right.”
My husband lifted his eyes from his phone with the irritation of someone whose important evening had been disturbed. He already wore a charcoal suit, his hair slicked neatly back, his expensive watch catching the glow beneath the kitchen lights. His mother, Victoria Vance, was celebrating her sixty-fifth birthday that night.
Without warning, his phone began ringing. He switched it to speaker.
“Don’t tell me Audrey is pulling one of her stunts again,” his mother sighed over the call. “If you miss my champagne toast, Liam, I will be humiliated.”
Another contraction crashed over me, even stronger than before. I bent across the counter, gasping for breath.
