My wife was five months pregnant with our twin daughters when her best friend leaned across a restaurant booth, touched my arm, and whispered, “If things ever get too hard at home, I know how to keep secrets.”

By midnight, that same woman was crying in my driveway.

By morning, my wife was holding her phone with both hands, staring at a group chat she was never supposed to see, and asking me in a voice I barely recognized, “How long have they all been laughing at me?”

My name is Nolan Brooks.

I’m thirty-one.

I work in sales leadership, which is a fancy way of saying I spend my days listening to people say one thing while their faces, hands, and voices say something else entirely.

You learn patterns in my job.

You learn when somebody is avoiding the truth.

You learn when confidence is rehearsed.

You learn when a joke is not a joke.

That skill made me good at work.

Unfortunately, it also made me notice my wife’s friend Serena long before my wife did.

My wife’s name is Annika.

She’s twenty-nine, Swedish, stubborn, kind, blunt in the way Europeans can be blunt without realizing Americans will need three business days to recover.

She moved to the U.S. five years ago for graduate school.

We met at a coffee shop in Chicago because I accidentally took her drink.

I ordered a black coffee.

She ordered something with oat milk, cinnamon, and enough espresso to restart a heart.

I picked hers up without looking.

She tapped my shoulder and said, “That is mine, and you look like a man who cannot handle oat milk emotionally.”

I laughed so hard I nearly dropped it.

Three years later, I married her.

Two years after that, she was pregnant with twin girls, craving watermelon at midnight, crying at dog food commercials, and telling our daughters in Swedish that their father was “very handsome but bad at laundry.”

I loved her more than I knew what to do with.

That was part of the problem.

Because when you love someone like that, you want to protect them from pain.

Even when pain is already sitting beside them at dinner, calling itself a friend.

Annika had struggled to build a close circle after moving here.

She was friendly, but not performative.

She hated small talk.

She didn’t understand why people said, “We should get coffee sometime,” when they clearly had no intention of getting coffee.

She missed the directness of home.

So when she finally found a group of women she clicked with, I was happy for her.

There was Maya, a nurse with sharp humor and three kids.

Claire, a quiet graphic designer who sent handwritten thank-you notes.

Rachel, a teacher who always carried snacks.

And Serena.

Serena was the loud one.

The glittery one.

The one who always looked like she was on her way to a rooftop bar even if the plan was brunch at 10 a.m.

She had perfect hair, long nails, a laugh that arrived before the joke, and a way of touching people when she talked that made everything feel slightly too intimate.

At first, I thought I was being unfair.

Some people are just warm.

Some people flirt with the whole room without meaning anything.

But Serena didn’t flirt with the whole room.

She flirted with boundaries.

The first time I noticed it, Annika and I were hosting a small barbecue in our backyard.

Annika was about nine weeks pregnant then, though we hadn’t told everyone yet.

Serena arrived late with two bottles of wine and no apology.

She hugged Annika.

Then she hugged me.

Long.

Too long.

“You smell expensive,” she said into my shoulder.

I stepped back.

“It’s probably smoke from the grill.”

She smiled.

“No, I know what smoke smells like.”

Annika laughed from behind her.

“She’s always like this.”

That sentence stayed with me.

She’s always like this.

It was used like a disclaimer.

Like Serena came with terms and conditions nobody was allowed to read too closely.

Later that day, while I was flipping burgers, Serena came outside alone.

She leaned against the deck railing, watching me.

“So,” she said, “how does it feel being married to the most emotionally unavailable Swede in Illinois?”

I looked at her.

“Annika is not emotionally unavailable.”

Serena held up both hands.

“I’m joking.”

“She’s just not fake.”

Serena’s smile tightened for half a second.

Then she laughed.

“Protective. Cute.”

I didn’t answer.

That was the beginning.

After that, Serena made little comments every time I saw her.

Nothing big enough to create a scene.

Always wrapped in humor.

Always with plausible deniability.

Annika would say, “Nolan got up at 2 a.m. to get me strawberries.”

Serena would say, “Careful, if you keep bragging, someone’s going to steal him.”

Annika would laugh.

I wouldn’t.

At a birthday dinner, Serena asked me, “Are you one of those husbands who gives foot rubs, or are you useless?”

I said, “I’m useful enough.”

She looked me over and said, “I bet.”

Annika didn’t hear that part.

At a game night, Serena pulled me into a team for charades and said, “I want Nolan. He reads me well.”

I said, “Actually, I’m going to help Rachel with snacks.”

Serena pouted.

“Boring.”

I told Annika about some of it.

Not all.

Just enough.

“She gives me a weird vibe,” I said one night while we were folding baby clothes.

Annika held up a tiny yellow onesie and smiled.

“Everyone gives you a weird vibe. You think the mailman is secretly judging our landscaping.”

“He is. But that’s not the point.”

She laughed.

I didn’t.

“I’m serious,” I said. “Serena crosses lines.”

Annika’s smile faded.

“She jokes like that with everyone.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

Annika looked tired.

Pregnancy tired.

The kind that settles under the eyes and into the bones.

“Nolan, she was one of the first people here who made me feel included. She checks on me. She helped me find my OB. She brought soup when I was sick.”

“I’m not saying she hasn’t done nice things.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t trust her.”

Annika stared at the folded onesies between us.

Then she said quietly, “I don’t have that many people here.”

That shut me up.

Not because she was right.

Because she was hurt.

And I hated being the reason.

So I let it go.

Or I tried to.

The dinner happened on a Friday.

Annika was twenty-one weeks pregnant.

The twins had started kicking hard enough that sometimes she’d grab my hand in the middle of a conversation and press it against her stomach with this amazed look, like she still couldn’t believe there were two tiny people in there rearranging her organs.

We were meeting her friends at a new Italian place downtown.

Nothing fancy, but trendy enough that the tables were too close together and every cocktail had rosemary in it.

Annika wore a dark green dress that made her eyes look bright and her bump look perfectly round.

She stood in front of the mirror before we left, frowning.

“I look like a forest planet.”

I came up behind her and put my hands on her belly.

“You look beautiful.”

She narrowed her eyes at me in the mirror.

“You have to say that. You made this.”

“I helped.”

“You helped for six minutes and then slept.”

“Strong six minutes.”

She tried not to laugh.

Failed.

That was us.

That was our marriage.

Easy, in the middle of everything hard.

At dinner, Serena sat beside me.

Not beside Annika.

Not across from her.

Beside me.

That was the first thing Annika later admitted she noticed.

The restaurant had one of those big U-shaped booths in the back. Plenty of room. Annika sat on my left. I slid in beside her.

Serena arrived last, took off her coat, looked at the open seats, and squeezed in on my right.

“Guess I’m with the parents-to-be,” she said.

Her thigh brushed mine.

I moved closer to Annika.

Serena noticed.

Of course she did.

Dinner started normally.

Bread.

Salads.

Pregnancy jokes.

Maya asked if we had picked names.

Annika said we had a list but weren’t telling anyone.

Serena gasped.

“That’s rude.”

Annika shrugged.

“It is my babies.”

Claire laughed.

Rachel asked how I was handling the idea of two newborns.

“Mostly denial,” I said.

Annika patted my arm.

“He is pretending to be calm, but yesterday he watched a video about installing car seats and whispered, ‘We need a second adult.’”

Everyone laughed.

Serena leaned toward me.

“I could help.”

I looked at her.

“With car seats?”

“With whatever.”

The table went quiet for half a beat.

Then Rachel started talking too loudly about baby monitors.

Annika looked at me, then at Serena, then down at her water glass.

The vibe shifted, but nobody named it.

That’s how toxic people survive groups.

They count on everyone else being too polite to identify the smell.

Halfway through dinner, Annika stood.

“I need bathroom.”

Maya stood too.

“I’ll come with you.”

Rachel followed because apparently pregnancy bathroom trips attract backup.

Claire got a call and stepped outside.

That left me at one end of the booth with Serena.

The other couple at our table was down at the far end, deep in conversation, not paying attention.

The second Annika disappeared around the corner, Serena changed.

Not dramatically.

Subtly.

Her shoulders softened.

Her voice dropped.

She turned her body toward me like the rest of the restaurant had vanished.

Then she put her hand on my arm.

Not a tap.

Not casual.

A slow touch, fingers resting against my sleeve.

“Nolan,” she said quietly.

I looked down at her hand.

Then at her.

She smiled.

“I know things are probably a lot at home right now.”

I removed my arm gently.

“They’re great, actually.”

Her smile widened.

“I mean, twins. Hormones. Stress. Annika can be intense.”

“She’s pregnant.”

“I know.” Serena leaned closer. “And you’re doing so much. Anyone can see that.”

I said nothing.

She continued.

“I just want you to know, if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

“That’s nice.”

“I mean really talk.”

Her eyes held mine.

“And whatever you say would stay between us.”

There it was.

Not in the words.

In the pause after them.

In the way she looked at my mouth.

In the way her voice softened on “between us.”

In the way she waited for me to understand the invitation without making her say it out loud.

I felt cold.

Not tempted.

Not flattered.

Cold.

Because this wasn’t just disrespect toward me.

It was betrayal toward my wife.

My pregnant wife.

The woman this person called a friend.

I kept my voice calm.

“Serena, my wife and I are phenomenal.”

Her expression flickered.

I added, “And if I ever need to talk, I’ll talk to Annika.”

For a second, she looked embarrassed.

Then she recovered.

Fast.

“Oh my God,” she said, laughing lightly. “You are so serious.”

“I am.”

“I was just being supportive.”

“No, you weren’t.”

Her smile died.

The air between us tightened.

Then she leaned back and picked up her wine.

“Relax, Nolan. It was a standing offer.”

I stared at her.

She took a sip like she had won something.

Annika came back two minutes later.

She slid into the booth beside me and immediately looked at my face.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” Serena said brightly.

I looked at my wife.

“Not nothing.”

Serena’s eyes flashed.

Annika froze.

“What?”

The food arrived before anyone could speak.

Timing is cruel that way.

Plates landed in front of us.

Pasta.

Fish.

Chicken parm.

A waiter asked if we wanted cheese.

Nobody did.

Dinner limped forward.

Serena acted normal.

Too normal.

Laughing.

Complimenting Annika’s dress.

Asking Maya about work.

Touching her necklace.

Refilling her glass.

It was a performance so smooth I almost admired the audacity.

Annika’s hand found my knee under the table.

She squeezed once.

Question.

I squeezed back.

Later.

The drive home was silent for the first eight minutes.

Annika stared out the window, one hand on her stomach.

The city lights slid across her face.

I didn’t know how to start.

There are conversations where every opening line feels like a weapon.

Finally, she said, “Tell me.”

So I did.

I told her exactly what happened.

Every word.

Every pause.

Every look.

I did not exaggerate.

I did not soften.

I did not say, “Maybe I misread it,” because I hadn’t.

Annika listened without interrupting.

That scared me more than if she had reacted.

When I finished, she asked, “You are sure?”

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes.

“She said those words?”

“Yes.”

“And after you said no, she said standing offer?”

“Yes.”

Annika opened her eyes and looked out the windshield.

For a second, I thought she might defend her.

Then she whispered, “I knew something was wrong.”

I turned slightly.

“What?”

“At dinner. She sat next to you when there was so much space.” Annika rubbed her belly slowly. “And last week, in the group chat, she made a joke.”

“What joke?”

Annika swallowed.

“She said if pregnancy makes me too tired, I should outsource husband care.”

My hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“What did you say?”

“I sent an eye-roll emoji.” Her voice cracked. “I thought it was disgusting, but everyone laughed, so I thought maybe I was being too sensitive.”

“You weren’t.”

She looked at me then.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“She was one of my first friends here.”

“I know.”

“She helped me when I was lonely.”

“I know.”

“And now I feel stupid.”

That hurt me.

Because she wasn’t stupid.

She was pregnant in a country where she still sometimes felt like an outsider, trying to build a circle in a culture that smiled while hiding knives.

“You’re not stupid,” I said. “You trusted someone.”

Annika stared at her lap.

“That is starting to feel like the same thing.”

At home, she went straight upstairs.

I thought she needed space.

Instead, she came back down ten minutes later with her phone.

Her face looked pale.

“Nolan.”

I stood from the couch.

“What?”

She held out the phone.

The group chat was open.

The name at the top was:

Girls Without Borders.

There were hundreds of messages.

Most harmless.

Baby name guesses.

Restaurant plans.

Work complaints.

Memes.

Then Annika searched Serena’s name.

Messages appeared.

Serena: Nolan has golden retriever husband energy but hotter.

Maya: Serena.

Serena: What? I said what I said.

Rachel: That’s Annika’s husband.

Serena: I know. Pregnant women get all the good ones.

Claire: Gross.

Serena: I’m jokingggg.

Another message.

Serena: If Annika has twins, she won’t have energy for him for at least a year. Tragic.

Another.

Serena: Nolan looked at me today like he wanted to report me to HR.

Another.

Serena: I love making faithful men nervous.

I looked up.

Annika’s eyes were wet.

“I didn’t see all of these,” she said. “Some happened while I was asleep. Or I just scrolled past. I thought if no one else was worried…”

She trailed off.

I kept reading.

Then my stomach dropped.

Serena: Relax. Men like Nolan are only loyal until they feel unappreciated.

Rachel: Seriously stop.

Serena: What? Annika is lucky I’m a good person.

Maya: Are you?

Serena: Depends who asks.

Annika took the phone back and scrolled further.

Then she stopped.

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

“What is it?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

I moved beside her and read.

Serena: I bet I could get him to tell me something private before the babies come.

Maya: Why would you want to?

Serena: Because perfect couples are annoying.

Claire: That’s not funny.

Serena: It’s a joke. You people are exhausting.

Annika sat down slowly.

The color had drained from her face.

“She planned it.”

I crouched in front of her.

“Hey. Look at me.”

She didn’t.

“She planned it,” she repeated.

I took the phone gently.

“I’m going to message her.”

Annika looked up sharply.

“No.”

“No?”

“I want to do it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” She wiped her face. “But she is my friend. Or she was. I need to be the one.”

Her hands shook as she typed.

Then deleted.

Typed again.

Deleted.

Finally, she wrote:

Nolan told me what you said to him tonight. I saw the messages too. Do not contact him again. Do not contact me until I decide whether there is anything left to say.

She hit send.

Serena responded in less than a minute.

Oh wow.

Then:

He really ran home and told you?

Then:

I was being nice. This is embarrassing.

Annika’s jaw tightened.

She typed:

Yes. For you.

Then she blocked her.

I wanted to cheer.

I wanted to wrap her in a blanket.

I wanted to drive to Serena’s house and throw her phone into Lake Michigan.

Instead, I sat beside my wife on the couch while she cried into my shoulder.

Not dramatic crying.

Quiet, humiliating crying.

The kind people do when betrayal doesn’t just hurt—it makes them question their own judgment.

The next morning, everything got worse.

Annika woke up to eleven missed calls.

Three from Maya.

Two from Claire.

Four from Rachel.

Two unknown.

And one long message from Serena from a new number.

It said:

I can’t believe you would let your husband twist something innocent. After everything I’ve done for you. You know how lonely you were before us. You know I was there. But fine. If you want to throw away a friendship because your husband got an ego boost, that says more about your marriage than me.

Annika read it without expression.

Then she handed me the phone.

“I want coffee.”

“Decaf?”

She glared.

“I want emotional coffee.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means put whipped cream on it.”

While I made coffee, Annika called Maya.

I stayed in the kitchen because she put it on speaker.

Maya answered immediately.

“Oh my God, are you okay?”

Annika took a breath.

“No.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“What did you know?”

Silence.

That one second answered more than words.

Annika closed her eyes.

“Maya.”

Maya’s voice broke.

“We knew she was being weird.”

“How weird?”

“I mean, she made comments. Not just about Nolan. About other husbands too. Boyfriends. Men at bars. She likes attention. We thought it was pathetic, not serious.”

“She said she wanted to see if she could get Nolan to tell her something private.”

“I know.”

“You saw that?”

“I saw it after. I didn’t respond because I was at work, and then the chat moved on. That’s not an excuse.”

“No,” Annika said. “It is not.”

Maya sounded like she was crying now.

“I should have said something.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

Annika looked down at her belly.

The twins kicked.

She pressed her hand there.

“Did she say things about me?”

Another silence.

My chest tightened.

“Maya,” Annika said softly. “Tell me.”

Maya exhaled shakily.

“She said you were lucky Nolan was patient. She said you were cold sometimes. She said he seemed like a man who needed more praise.”

Annika’s face went blank.

I stepped toward her.

She held up one hand, stopping me.

Maya continued.

“She made jokes about Swedish women being emotionally unavailable. I told her that was gross. Rachel did too. Claire stopped responding in the chat when Serena got like that.”

Annika whispered, “But nobody told me.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Because…” Maya started crying. “Because Serena makes everything a scene. And because you liked her. And because you seemed happy to have a group. And because we were cowards.”

There it was.

Not malicious.

Almost worse.

Cowardice dressed as kindness.

Annika said, “I need time.”

“I understand.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

Then she hung up.

She didn’t call Rachel or Claire that day.

She sat on the couch with coffee she didn’t drink, looking out the window while snow fell in soft, useless flakes.

I worked from home.

Or pretended to.

Every hour or so, I checked on her.

Every time, she said, “I’m fine.”

Every time, she was lying.

That evening, Serena posted on Instagram.

Annika wasn’t following her anymore, but Claire sent a screenshot with the message:

I’m sorry. You should see this.

The post was a black-and-white selfie.

Serena looking sad, graceful, wounded.

Caption:

Some people will let insecure partners destroy real friendships. Learning that not everyone you support will support you back. Protect your peace.

Comments flooded in.

You deserve better.

People are so ungrateful.

Pregnancy hormones make people wild lol.

That last one was from someone named Tasha.

I watched Annika read it.

Her hands curled around the phone.

“She is making me the crazy pregnant woman.”

I said, “She’s trying.”

Annika looked at me.

There was something new in her face now.

Not sadness.

Not only.

Anger.

Clean and bright.

“Give me your phone,” she said.

“Why?”

“I’m going to post.”

I hesitated.

“Nika…”

“No.” Her voice sharpened. “I am tired of being polite so other people can lie comfortably.”

I handed it over.

She opened her own Instagram.

She posted a simple story.

White text on black background.

My husband told me immediately when a friend made an inappropriate private comment to him. I believed him. Then I checked the group chat and learned several people had watched that friend disrespect my marriage and said nothing. I am pregnant, not stupid. Do not use my hormones as cover for your behavior.

I stared at it.

“Damn.”

She handed my phone back.

“I think I like American drama now.”

Within twenty minutes, my phone started blowing up too.

Friends.

Coworkers.

Maya sent another apology.

Rachel sent screenshots of old messages.

Claire sent a voice memo crying.

Then Serena called me.

I didn’t answer.

She called again.

I blocked her.

Then she called Annika from another number.

Annika blocked that too.

At 10:14 p.m., our doorbell rang.

I checked the camera.

Serena stood on our porch.

No coat.

Arms wrapped around herself.

Mascara smudged.

Snow collecting in her hair.

I stared at the screen.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Annika stood beside me.

“Do not open it.”

“I won’t.”

Serena rang again.

Then knocked.

Then pounded.

“Nolan!” she shouted.

Annika’s face went white.

Not because Serena was yelling.

Because she yelled my name first.

“Nolan, come on. I know you’re in there. Just talk to me.”

I hit the intercom.

“Leave.”

Serena looked up at the camera.

Her face changed when she realized I was watching.

“Nolan, please. This got out of hand.”

“Yes. Because of you.”

“I need to explain.”

“You need to leave my property.”

Annika leaned toward the speaker.

“Serena.”

Serena froze.

For a second, she looked genuinely scared.

Good.

Annika’s voice was calm.

“If you do not leave, we will call the police.”

Serena’s eyes filled with tears.

“Annika, please. You don’t understand what’s happening.”

“I understand enough.”

“No, you don’t.” Serena stepped closer to the camera. “Ask your friends what they did.”

Annika frowned.

“What?”

Serena wiped her face.

“Ask them why they let me sit beside Nolan.”

I felt the air shift.

Annika and I looked at each other.

Serena laughed once.

It sounded broken.

“You think I’m the only one who crossed a line? Fine. Keep believing that.”

Then she walked off the porch into the snow.

We watched her disappear down the driveway.

Neither of us spoke.

Then Annika’s phone buzzed.

Maya.

Then Claire.

Then Rachel.

One after another.

Something was happening.

Annika opened Maya’s message first.

Do not listen to Serena. She is trying to twist things.

Claire:

I need to tell you something before Serena does.

Rachel:

I’m sorry. We should have told you about the bet.

Annika stopped breathing.

I read the word over her shoulder.

Bet.

My stomach dropped.

Annika opened Rachel’s message with shaking hands.

It was long.

Too long.

The first line said:

Before you got pregnant, Serena started joking that Nolan was “too perfect” and that no man is actually that loyal. One night, after too much wine, she said she could get him to cross a line if she wanted. We told her to stop, but then Maya joked that Nolan would shut her down in ten seconds. Serena said, “Want to bet?”

Annika lowered the phone.

Her face had gone completely still.

I whispered, “Nika.”

She kept reading.

Rachel’s message continued:

I didn’t think it was real. None of us did. But then Serena kept bringing it up. She said if Nolan rejected her, it proved you had trained him. If he didn’t, it proved your marriage wasn’t special. I know how disgusting this sounds. I should have told you. I hate myself for not telling you.

Annika sat down slowly on the stairs.

The phone slipped from her hand.

I picked it up.

There was more.

And then, beneath Rachel’s confession, one screenshot.

A Venmo transaction.

From Maya to Serena.

Description:

loyalty test 😂

Amount: $50.

I stared at it.

My ears rang.

Annika looked up at me.

Her eyes were empty in a way I had never seen.

“It was a game,” she whispered.

I didn’t know what to say.

How do you comfort someone who just found out her loneliness had been used for entertainment?

Then her phone buzzed again.

This time, the notification was from an unknown email address.

Subject line:

You should know what your wife sent us.

Annika blinked.

“What?”

I opened it before I could think better of it.

There was no message.

Just an attachment.

A screenshot from another group chat.

Not Girls Without Borders.

A different one.

The name at the top was:

No Husbands Club.

In the screenshot, Serena had written:

Nolan is easy. He tells Annika everything because she trained him like a puppy. Watch—if I make a move, he’ll run to her, and she’ll blow up her own friend group for us.

Below it, Maya had replied:

Don’t do this while she’s pregnant.

Serena:

That’s the point. Pregnant women show you who they really are.

Claire:

This is cruel.

Then came the message that made Annika make a sound I had never heard before.

It wasn’t from Serena.

It was from Maya.

Maybe cruel. But if Annika finds out what we said at Claire’s birthday, Serena won’t be the only one she cuts off.

Annika grabbed the phone from me.

Her hand flew over the screen, scrolling.

“What happened at Claire’s birthday?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

Because she already knew.

Her breathing changed.

Short.

Sharp.

Panicked.

“Nolan,” she whispered.

“What?”

She turned the screen toward me.

There was one more screenshot.

A photo.

Taken two months earlier.

At Claire’s birthday party.

Annika had been sick that weekend and stayed home.

I remembered because I made her soup and watched three episodes of a Swedish crime show where everyone looked cold and guilty.

The photo showed Serena, Maya, Claire, and Rachel around a table.

Drinks in hand.

Laughing.

In the middle of the table was a printed ultrasound picture.

Our ultrasound picture.

One of the first pictures of our twin daughters.

The one Annika had sent to the group chat because she had been excited and terrified and wanted her friends to celebrate with her.

Someone had drawn speech bubbles over the babies.

One bubble said:

Mom is scary.

The other said:

Dad is hot.

Under the photo, Serena had written:

Don’t worry, babies. Auntie Serena can comfort him when your mom turns into IKEA thunder.

I felt sick.

Annika stared at the picture.

Then she stood.

Too fast.

“Nika, sit down.”

“No.”

She walked to the coat closet and grabbed her boots.

“Where are you going?”

“To Maya’s.”

“No, you’re not.”

Her eyes flashed.

“Do not tell me what I am doing.”

“You are five months pregnant, shaking, and it’s snowing.”

“I need to look at her face.”

I stepped closer.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t!” she shouted.

Then she clutched her stomach and froze.

My heart stopped.

“What? What is it?”

She didn’t answer.

Her face twisted.

Pain.

Real pain.

I reached for her.

“Annika.”

She bent forward, one hand on the wall, the other pressed hard against her belly.

“Nolan,” she said, voice suddenly small.

Then water splashed onto the hardwood floor between her boots.

For one second, neither of us moved.

Then she looked down.

Her face drained of color.

“That is not supposed to happen yet.”

My phone buzzed in my hand.

Another unknown message.

This one had no attachment.

Just seven words.

Serena didn’t start the bet. Your wife did.