“Careful,” she whispered. “We wouldn’t want a spill.”

I thanked her politely.

Her eyes locked onto mine—cold and deliberate. Then the bowl tipped.

Scalding soup splashed across my pregnant stomach. It burned through the fabric, heat slicing into my skin. I gasped as the baby jolted inside me.

Judith stepped back instantly, voice loud and dramatic. “Claire! Look what you’ve done!”

My hands lifted instinctively. I looked to Ethan—waiting for him to defend me, to help, to choose me.

He didn’t.

He stood there, paralyzed, glancing between me and his mother as if both of us were threats. His silence hurt more than the burn. It told me exactly where I stood.

Something inside me shifted—quiet and irreversible.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry.

I picked up my phone.

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