“Smile, Claire. It’s our anniversary—don’t ruin my night.”
The stem of the wineglass trembled in Claire Rowland’s hand as she forced her mouth into something that looked like happiness. Eight months pregnant, her back ached, her feet were swollen, and the tight black dress she’d chosen for their third anniversary felt like a costume. Across the white-linen table, her husband Julian Hale checked his phone again—screen angled away from her as if secrecy was a habit, not a choice.
