BETSY

4:30am.

I woke up to a ringing phone. My phone. Blearily, I felt around the bed for the device, answered, and pressed the speaker to my ear.

"I need you to take me to the doctor." Tori's voice came shakily over the phone.

I shot up, heart drumming in my ears. "What's the matter?"

She groaned. "Something's not right," she said, breathing heavy. "Too much blood..."

"What's going on?"

"Just pick me up, please."

"I'll be there in ten."

I hung up the phone and was halfway to the front door when I stopped, hand hovering over my keys. What in the world was I doing?

Sure, my investigation had revealed little over the past few months: no late-night escapades, no check-ins to the Nimbus Hotel, no outward signal of infidelity but for his sleeping in the guest room across the hall. Though I had the room closest to Camille, and had helped her with her recovery from a wheelchair to sometimes using a water, she didn't suspect anything of my connection to Tori. Or so I hoped.

But this had been common, too, the past year. Rick would go months at a time without disappearing, then be gone three nights out of the week and come home drunk. What's to say they were biding their time? Taking me for a sucker underneath my own roof?

All at once I could feel the mid-November cold seep through the hardwood floors, crawling through any cracks. I shivered, but I couldn't bring myself to grab a coat. My cold fear suddenly turned to hot magma in my blood and I caught myself.

I had to remember Tori's kindness to me the past few months. In truth, if I didn't suspect her of sleeping with my husband, we might almost be friends.

At least, she thought so.

So what would she think if I ditched her when she was in need? What would I think? I could just see the sleepless nights moving forward, should something happen and I stayed at home.

With that thought, I snatched up the keys and gently closed the door behind me. Her voice over the phone had been shaky and breathless—how could I ignore it?

I blew through a few stop signs on my way to Katherine's house. Gravel crunched under my tires as I pulled into the driveway, only for a bright shape to move in front of my headlights at the last moment. I braked—hard—and my back protested at the sudden jolt.

"Hurry, let me in!" Tori rushed to the side of the car and tugged on the handle.

I stared at her.

"Come on," she said, red hair wild about her shoulders and down her back. "We gotta go."

Parking the car, I unlocked the door. Tori slid in beside me, a white towel wrapped around her blue pajamas. She looked at me, a frenzied fear in her green eyes, cheeks bright with cold, and I didn't hesitate to follow her instructions to the emergency room.

Our arrival was a blur. Tori rushed out of the car, her face ashen, and almost fell. That's when I noticed the red blooming on the white towel. The dark crimson that ran down her legs and dripped a trail from my car to the ER when we arrived. The attendant summoned a nurse and Tori was whisked away, while I was left to park the car.

By the time I returned, the attendant referred me to Room 306. Private. The last time I'd seen private rooms for patients was when it was serious—like Camille. Concern coursed through me like wildfire, drawing me to knock on the door before I even realized.

A weak "Come in." answered.

She sat up in bed, her red hair making her face appear all the more white. A smile broke her face when she saw me, and she reached a hand out. At that moment, I caught a glimpse of her belly—still thin, but with a distinctive roundness that could only mean one thing.

She was pregnant.

The crimson on the towel. The doctor's appointment she said she'd had a few weeks ago, where she confided the impossible had happened—even if she didn't share what exactly. Would she know that I would suspect her of carrying my husband's child?

Maybe.

Her smile dimmed when she caught my gaze glued on her rounded belly.

The words tugged on my lips, Does it belong to Rick? But nothing came.

A flurry of emotions battled inside me. Anger, hot and bitter, on my tongue. How could she do this to me? Then, self-loathing like a snake coiled around my throat—shouldn't I have known?

What could have made me expect any less?

"It's not his." Tori spoke so quietly, I thought she didn't say anything at first.

She repeated it. Somehow, I found myself next to her, standing at the foot of the bed. My eyes were glued to hers.

"Say that again." Could it be true? Could I have placed blame where it didn't belong?

Tori sighed as if the whole world sat on her shoulders. "It's Nick's baby." She chuckled, though it was a mirthless laugh. "After the doctor said I'd never get pregnant, of course it had to happen now. When he hates me." Her eyes tears up, spilling over her cheeks in round drops on the hospital gown. She focused her eyes on her hands twisting her bedsheet to collect herself from full-out sobbing.

She met my gaze again, blinking rapidly. "That's what I get for not telling Nick, but it was too expensive." She took a deep breath. "The fertility treatments I needed were only in Philadelphia. We couldn't pay, not with everything wrapped up in Wayward, and our insurance wouldn't cover it."

"Who did?" I asked tersely, ready to hear my husband's name on her lips. Somehow or other, he had to be involved. "You didn't get it for free."

"Octavia."

I couldn't believe it. "The CEO of Wayward?" It was unbelievable. "Why?"

"She said she could allocate funds for my treatment if I negotiated a deal with your husband to buy out Katherine's shares." Tori let out a shaky breath, as if she were testing a limp to find that it didn't hurt. "I wanted to move on... get on with our future..."

Suddenly, her eyes teared up again as she went on. "I don't deserve to have a good life," she whispered. "I didn't tell Nick because I knew he would want to protect Katherine—even over choosing us. Now, he hates me. I deserve to lose him... just as much as I deserve to lose this baby, too."

Too. There were more? I didn't realize the words had escaped my lips until Tori responded with a silent nod.

I was beyond dumbfounded.

Somehow, I found myself outside the room, shaking, clutching my chest with one hand over my mouth. A nurse paused to glance at me, but moved on when a patient called her.

I ran out of the hospital before anyone else could talk to me, not hearing a word until the car door slammed and I sat in my vehicle.

Victoria Pitchner. The ex-best friend of my best friend. The worst human being on the face of the planet—the one who had a stain so large, so deep that nothing could erase it. She was the woman that I loved to hate. The faceless woman I always assumed was with Rick.

But that broken expression on Victoria's face was not the expression of a vindictive adulteress. Maybe, at one point, it had been, when she stole Nick from Kat. Now, she was far from it.

And, somehow, I felt bad for her. With the same gut-wrenching, mind-capturing empathy that had taken me when I had to tell Kat about her mother's accident.

Camille! I checked my phone—6:00am. No doubt she would be awake, looking for me. Hopefully it was something Rick could help with like preparing breakfast or helping her to the wheelchair.

Weaving between cars, brushing tears with the back of my hand, I reached the apartment by 6:45am. I rushed into the apartment and, spying no one in the main area, stepped into my room to get dressed. I washed my face, taking care to hide the purple under my eyes, and went to knock on Camille's door.

No reply.

Gently turning the doorknob, I cracked the door open enough to hear her quiet breathing. Asleep. I let out a sigh of relief and closed the door.

At least I still had time to process before I had to plaster a smile on my face.

In the kitchen, I started a pot of coffee for me and Rick. Then I went for milk. Empty. I grabbed the yellow pad we use to track groceries, pen poised, and my breath caught in my throat.

Dear Betsy,

I have a last-minute business trip to Alabama to finish up a project. Can't say when I'll be back exactly, but I'll text you.

Love,

Rick

Crumpling the paper, I threw it in the trash and ran my hands through my hair, tugging at the ends, and closed my eyes.

He hasn't had a full conversation with me in three weeks, but he writes a full note—and even includes love. Of course, I don't have to wonder long why he did it: Camille is as nosy as she is optimistic, so in the likely coincidence that she would find it first, he had to keep appearances.

But Alabama?

Before I could think more on it, Camille's voice sounded from down the hall and I was forced to pretend like my life wasn't a whirlwind of chaos tearing me to shreds.