"He told her the baby was the only reason he married her, not knowing her father was about to hear what kind of man he really was."

Ava Whitlock woke up with her husband standing over her and a white pillow in his hands.

For one second, she thought she was still inside a nightmare.

Then she saw Grant’s face.

His eyes were red, not from crying, but from rage. His light blue shirt was wrinkled, his jaw clenched so hard that a vein stood out near his temple. The bedroom was dim, cold with morning light slipping through the curtains, and Ava’s hand moved instinctively to her swollen belly.

“Grant,” she whispered. “Please.”

He leaned closer.

The pillow hovered inches from her face.

Ava’s breath broke in her throat. She turned her head away, tears already sliding into her hairline.

“I’m carrying your child,” she said, barely able to get the words out.

Grant’s mouth twisted.

“That baby,” he said, low and cruel, “is the only reason I married you.”

The sentence hurt worse than his hand ever could have.

Ava froze beneath him, one palm pressed to her belly, the other clutching the white sheet like it could keep her anchored to the world. The baby moved softly beneath her hand, a tiny shifting pressure that made her tears fall harder.

Grant pulled back just enough to look at her properly.

“You were never supposed to ask questions,” he said.

Outside the bedroom, somewhere down the hall, Ava heard voices from the kitchen. Plates. Chairs. The faint clink of coffee cups.

His family was here.

Her father was here.

Everyone was downstairs, eating breakfast like this was an ordinary Sunday.

Grant glanced toward the door, then back at her.

“Get up,” he said. “You’re going to smile at that table, and you’re going to tell your father you’re fine.”

Ava stared at him.

For three years, she had tried to explain away his temper.

Stress.

Work.