After His Daughter Targeted Me, I Wanted a Divorce

I sat on the bathroom floor, legs crossed, staring at the plastic stick in my hand. Two pink lines. Clear. Unmistakable.

Pregnant.

The word felt too big for my mouth. I pressed my palm against my stomach, flat and unchanged, and started crying. Not sad crying. The kind that comes when something you've wanted so badly it hurt finally happens.

Two years. Two years of hoping every month, of disappointment, of Roman holding me when I cried and saying, "It'll happen when it's meant to." And now it had.

I stood up, legs shaky, and looked at myself in the mirror. My face was blotchy. Mascara smudged under my eyes. I looked a mess, but I was smiling so hard my cheeks ached.

Roman. I had to tell Roman.

I checked my phone. Three missed calls to him, all unanswered. He was on a business trip to Boston, some acquisition deal that had kept him away for three days. He'd said he'd be back tonight. I glanced at the time. Six-thirty. He should be landing soon.

I wanted to do this right. Not over the phone. Not rushed. I wanted to see his face when I told him. I wanted to watch him light up the way he did when something made him truly happy.

I went to the kitchen and started cooking. His favorite — pan-seared salmon with lemon butter, roasted asparagus, garlic mashed potatoes. The kind of meal I only made for special occasions. The evening light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our penthouse, turning everything gold. Manhattan stretched out below, the city humming with life.

I found a small gift box in the closet, the kind you'd use for jewelry. I wrapped the pregnancy test in tissue paper and placed it inside. My hands were trembling. I set it on the dining table next to the candles I'd arranged.

Perfect.

I called Roman again. Straight to voicemail.

"Hey, it's me. I know you're probably still on the plane, but… I made dinner. Come home soon, okay? I have something to tell you."

I hung up and paced the living room, too excited to sit still. I kept touching my stomach, like I could feel something different there already. I couldn't. But I knew. I knew everything had changed.

The elevator chimed at eight-fifteen.

I spun toward the foyer, my heart pounding. The doors slid open.

Roman stepped out. Dark suit, tie loosened, his carry-on bag slung over one shoulder. He looked tired. But that wasn't what made me freeze.

He was holding a child's hand.

A little girl stood next to him, maybe eight years old. Pale skin. Straight brown hair that hung limp around her shoulders. She wore a faded pink hoodie and jeans with holes in the knees. In her other hand, she clutched a stuffed rabbit, its fur matted and gray.

She stared at me with wide, unblinking eyes.

"Aurora," Roman said quickly, stepping forward. "I know this looks—"

"Who is this?" My voice came out higher than I meant it to.

"This is Shiloh." He squeezed the girl's hand gently, like he was reassuring her. "Shiloh Evans."

Evans. Our last name.

"I don't understand."

Roman set his bag down and guided the girl into the living room. She moved like a ghost, silent and weightless. He gestured for me to sit, but I didn't. I stood there, arms crossed, waiting.

"Do you remember Adaline Reyes?" he asked.

I blinked. "From college?"

"Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair. "She… she passed away two weeks ago. Car accident."

"Oh my God." I felt a pang of sympathy, even though I barely remembered her. A quiet girl. Always hovering near Roman at parties, watching him.

"She left behind Shiloh," Roman continued. "No other family. She's been in foster care since the accident."

I looked at the girl. She hadn't moved. Hadn't spoken. Just stood there, gripping that rabbit.

"Roman, I'm so sorry, but… why is she here?"

He pulled a folded paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. "I had a DNA test done. I needed to be sure."

My stomach dropped. "Sure of what?"

"Adaline was obsessed with me in college. You remember that, right? She used to follow me around, leave notes in my locker. I was worried—" He stopped, shook his head. "I was worried Shiloh might be mine."

The room tilted.

I unfolded the paper. Medical letterhead. DNA Paternity Test. Probability of paternity: 0%.

Zero.

"She's not yours," I said slowly.

"No. But she has no one, Aurora." His voice softened, the tone he used when he was asking for something he knew I didn't want to give. "The foster system is a nightmare. She's already traumatized. I thought… just temporarily. Until we can find her a good family."

I stared at him. At the girl. At the DNA test in my hand.

"You brought her here without asking me?"

"I tried calling. You didn't pick up."

A lie. I had three missed calls to him. None from him to me.

But I didn't say that. I looked at Shiloh again. She was so small. So quiet. Her eyes were glassy, like she wasn't really seeing me.

She'd just lost her mother.

"Please," Roman said. "Just for a little while."

I wanted to say no. Every instinct told me to say no. But the word stuck in my throat, blocked by guilt and empathy and the image of this little girl alone in some cold foster home.

"Okay," I whispered. "Temporarily."

Roman smiled. Relieved. He kissed my forehead. "Thank you. You're amazing."

I wasn't amazing. I was a fool.

That night, Roman fell asleep within minutes, one arm draped across my waist. I lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling.

The gift box sat in my nightstand drawer. Unopened. The dinner I'd made had gone cold on the table.

I placed my hand on my stomach and thought about the baby growing inside me. Our baby. The one I hadn't told him about.

In the guest room down the hall, Shiloh slept.

And somewhere deep in my chest, a small, quiet voice whispered: *Something is wrong.*

I closed the drawer and shut my eyes.