There were moments that fooled me into hoping. He’d appear beside me during late nights in the office with a cup of coffee I didn’t ask for. He’d drape his jacket over my shoulders when I fell asleep at my desk, pretending he didn’t notice how exhausted I was. Small things. Quiet things. The kind of gestures that slowly convinced me we were becoming something real.
So I planned today carefully.
His favorite dishes were already set on the dining table. I had a small gift box wrapped neatly—inside was a silver keychain engraved with the words Dad-to-be. I even lit candles I had saved since our honeymoon, thinking tonight would be the moment everything changed.
When he called and said plans had shifted, I didn’t argue.
“I’ve arranged something else,” Matteo said over the phone. His tone was calm as always—too calm, like glass hiding something dangerous beneath it.
So I changed into a cream dress, wore diamond earrings he once said suited me, and carried hope like it was something fragile I had to protect.
But the moment the car stopped in front of an unfamiliar building, that hope wavered.