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Nine months pregnant, and my husband was forcing me to take the fall for a murder his first love committed. “Chloe has depression,” he said. “She can’t go to prison. You’re pregnant. The judge will go easy on you.” Tears streamed down my face as I begged him. “Ryan, I’m due any day. Do you really want our child to be born in prison?” He sneered. “Stop pretending. I have low sperm motility. How could the bastard in your belly possibly be mine?” In court, I was taken into custody on the spot. At that exact moment, my water broke. Everyone urged him to get me to a hospital, but he stopped the ambulance himself and had me taken to prison instead. Inside the freezing prison van, my entire body shook with pain. With the last of my strength, I dialed a number. “Adrian, save me… save my baby…” *** I was nine months pregnant, and my husband, Ryan, wanted me to confess for his first love, Chloe. In the federal courthouse, the judge looked down at me, his expression cold. “Emma Wilson, do you admit that three months ago, you drove drunk and killed Victor Lane?” I gripped the defendant’s stand, my belly tightening in excruciating waves. It was my baby, kicking. As if pleading with me not to confess. But when I glanced toward the gallery, Ryan was bent over Chloe, tenderly wiping her tears. Chloe leaned against him, her fingers clutching the fabric of his suit jacket as her shoulders trembled. “Ryan, this is all my fault,” she sobbed. “If I weren’t so fragile, Emma wouldn’t have been forced into this.” “Maybe I should be the one to go to prison. My life isn’t worth anything, anyway.” Ryan’s brow furrowed, and he pulled her tighter into his arms. “Don’t say that. A place like prison would destroy you.” Then he looked up at me, his gaze like ice. “But if Emma goes, it’s fine. She’s already filthy, anyway.” A tidal wave of sorrow crashed over me. The judge didn’t know. The real killer was sitting in......

Three days before the wedding, my fiancé sold the house we'd spent three years building together. His crew exploded in the garage bar. "You've lost your goddamn mind, Derek. You sold the house because Tiffany wanted a purse? Does Savannah even know? Where's she supposed to live after the wedding—your pickup bed?" "Yeah, Savannah oversaw every inch of that renovation. She sanded and stained the wainscoting in the master bedroom herself. Planted every hydrangea in the garden. All of it, her work." Derek knocked back a glass of Blanton's, ice clanking against the glass with an impatient sound. "She loves me so much she almost died taking a knife for me. You really think she's gonna care about some beat-up house?" "Besides. She's always saying as long as she's with me, anywhere is home. Perfect time to see if she actually meant it." I stood in the hallway outside the tool room, a container of hangover soup from Whole Foods in my hand. Behind that door, not quite shut, his careless voice carried through. The hallway smelled like motor oil and old wood. I leaned against the cold drywall for a few seconds. Then I turned, still holding the cold soup, and walked out. The morning of the wedding, my phone buzzed like a death threat. Derek's photo flashed on the screen. "Savannah, where the hell are you? Jesus Christ, both families are in the church. Forty people waiting on you." I sat in a speeding Uber, watching the oak-lined street I knew with my eyes closed slide past the window. "I already signed the papers with someone else. I'm at home now." *** That house. A 1920s Colonial with a wide front porch and oak floors. From the first renovation sketch I ever drew, it took three full years of my life. Tiffany posted one tearful Instagram story. "I want this bag so bad, it's like starlight fell to earth." Derek turned my house into cash and bought her a Himalaya Birkin—Hermès's crown jewel. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Ne......

Three days before the wedding, my fiancé sold the house we'd spent three years building together. His crew exploded in the garage bar. "You've lost your goddamn mind, Derek. You sold the house because Tiffany wanted a purse? Does Savannah even know? Where's she supposed to live after the wedding—your pickup bed?" "Yeah, Savannah oversaw every inch of that renovation. She sanded and stained the wainscoting in the master bedroom herself. Planted every hydrangea in the garden. All of it, her work." Derek knocked back a glass of Blanton's, ice clanking against the glass with an impatient sound. "She loves me so much she almost died taking a knife for me. You really think she's gonna care about some beat-up house?" "Besides. She's always saying as long as she's with me, anywhere is home. Perfect time to see if she actually meant it." I stood in the hallway outside the tool room, a container of hangover soup from Whole Foods in my hand. Behind that door, not quite shut, his careless voice carried through. The hallway smelled like motor oil and old wood. I leaned against the cold drywall for a few seconds. Then I turned, still holding the cold soup, and walked out. The morning of the wedding, my phone buzzed like a death threat. Derek's photo flashed on the screen. "Savannah, where the hell are you? Jesus Christ, both families are in the church. Forty people waiting on you." I sat in a speeding Uber, watching the oak-lined street I knew with my eyes closed slide past the window. "I already signed the papers with someone else. I'm at home now." *** That house. A 1920s Colonial with a wide front porch and oak floors. From the first renovation sketch I ever drew, it took three full years of my life. Tiffany posted one tearful Instagram story. "I want this bag so bad, it's like starlight fell to earth." Derek turned my house into cash and bought her a Himalaya Birkin—Hermès's crown jewel. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Ne......

Three days before the wedding, my fiancé sold the house we'd spent three years building together. His crew exploded in the garage bar. "You've lost your goddamn mind, Derek. You sold the house because Tiffany wanted a purse? Does Savannah even know? Where's she supposed to live after the wedding—your pickup bed?" "Yeah, Savannah oversaw every inch of that renovation. She sanded and stained the wainscoting in the master bedroom herself. Planted every hydrangea in the garden. All of it, her work." Derek knocked back a glass of Blanton's, ice clanking against the glass with an impatient sound. "She loves me so much she almost died taking a knife for me. You really think she's gonna care about some beat-up house?" "Besides. She's always saying as long as she's with me, anywhere is home. Perfect time to see if she actually meant it." I stood in the hallway outside the tool room, a container of hangover soup from Whole Foods in my hand. Behind that door, not quite shut, his careless voice carried through. The hallway smelled like motor oil and old wood. I leaned against the cold drywall for a few seconds. Then I turned, still holding the cold soup, and walked out. The morning of the wedding, my phone buzzed like a death threat. Derek's photo flashed on the screen. "Savannah, where the hell are you? Jesus Christ, both families are in the church. Forty people waiting on you." I sat in a speeding Uber, watching the oak-lined street I knew with my eyes closed slide past the window. "I already signed the papers with someone else. I'm at home now." *** That house. A 1920s Colonial with a wide front porch and oak floors. From the first renovation sketch I ever drew, it took three full years of my life. Tiffany posted one tearful Instagram story. "I want this bag so bad, it's like starlight fell to earth." Derek turned my house into cash and bought her a Himalaya Birkin—Hermès's crown jewel. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Ne......

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