Chapter 11

Angela POV

The setting sun cast long shadows in the master bedroom, the elegant furnishings as untouchable as a museum exhibit.

I slipped off my shoes, remembering this morning's encounter with Sean in the Shaw Group lobby.

"Mrs. Shaw," he'd said. "The quarterly projections look promising. Good work."

Just another executive assistant who happened to share his last name. The thought drew a bitter laugh from my throat.

I moved to the window, watching the last rays of sunlight glint off the glass towers of Manhattan. How many evenings had I spent like this, alone in our supposed marital home while Sean attended another "essential" business dinner?

The city lights were beginning to flicker to life, each one a reminder of the countless social events I'd never been invited to attend.

His friends - Evan, William, the whole Wall Street crowd - they all knew the truth about our marriage. I'd seen it in their careful politeness, the way they excluded me from their intimate gatherings. After all, why include a temporary placeholder in their permanent social circle?

The buzz of my phone made me jump. For a moment, my heart leaped - but it was just Emily, confirming tomorrow's meeting schedule.

I set the phone aside, trying to ignore the disappointment that shouldn't exist. This was what I'd agreed to, after all. A marriage of convenience, nothing more.

I could picture Sean in his office now, suit jacket draped over his chair, sleeves rolled up as he pored over contracts and spreadsheets.

Perhaps Christina was there too, just like that afternoon, kneeling between his legs, doing that disgusting thing.

"Mrs. Shaw?"

Sarah's soft voice drew me from my thoughts. Our longtime maid stood in the doorway, holding an elegantly wrapped package.

"This just arrived from Mrs. Elizabeth Shaw," she said, stepping forward. "She insisted it be delivered immediately."

The package was heavy, wrapped in cream paper bearing a Madison Avenue boutique's logo. Inside was a wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

Inside, nestled in midnight blue velvet, sat a small bronze statue. The figure of a woman, her belly swollen with child, her face serene and knowing.

A fertility goddess, I realized, my throat suddenly tight. The base bore an inscription in Elizabeth's elegant hand:

"For my dear Angela, may you bring joy to our family."

"Would you like me to place it on the mantel?" Sarah asked, her voice carefully neutral.

"No," I managed. "I'll... I'll find a place for it."

Alone again, I cradled the statue in my hands, feeling the weight of Elizabeth's hopes - and my reality - pressing down on me. She'd always treated me more like a true granddaughter than an arranged match for Sean. Her genuine warmth made our deception feel that much heavier.

My mind drifted to yesterday's conversation. I'd tried to test the waters, jokingly telling Sean I might be pregnant. His face had changed instantly - not anger or shock, but something worse. His eyes had held no joy, no trace of excitement at the possibility.

The memory made my hand drift to my still-flat stomach.

Then Sophie's words from our coffee shop conversation echoed in my mind:

"Tell Sean, keep the baby, live happily ever after."

Sophie's words kept growing in my mind.

I set Elizabeth's gift carefully on my bedside table, its presence both comforting and accusatory. The goddess's serene smile seemed to hold secrets, to know things I couldn't yet see.

The thought spurred me to action. Before I could second-guess myself, I picked up my phone. A text would be better than a face-to-face conversation. More controlled, less chance of revealing the storm of emotions behind the news.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. How do you compress such life-changing information into a text message?

'We need to talk' felt too cliché, too dramatic. 'I have news' was too vague.

In the end, simplicity won out. Three words that would change everything:

"I'm pregnant."

The message showed as delivered immediately. I held my breath, watching the screen, waiting for those three dots that would indicate he was typing a response. Nothing.

Minutes ticked by, marked by the gentle sweep of the antique clock Sean's grandmother had given us as a wedding present. Each second felt like an eternity, each minute a small death of hope.

I forced myself to set the phone down, to step away from its mocking silence. The city spread out below our windows, millions of lives moving forward while mine seemed suspended in this moment of waiting.

How would Sean react?

Would he insist on staying married for the child's sake?

Would he try to buy my silence, to protect his impending reunion with Christina?

Or would he...

My hand drifted to my stomach again, a gesture that was becoming habitual. An hour passed. I checked my phone again - still no response from Sean.

A knock on the bedroom door made my heart leap. For a moment, I thought it might be Sean, but Sarah's voice came through instead.

She brought in a cup of cinnamon tea. "Mr. Shaw specifically asked me to make this for you, Mrs. Shaw."

Warmth spread through my chest. He must have seen my message, I thought, to be thoughtful enough to send cinnamon tea.

But Sarah's next words turned that warmth to ice.

"Mr. Shaw also said he won't be coming home tonight."