FORGIVE OR FURY

I still remember the look of the city that night, as if it were deliberately putting on a show just for me. So many twinkling lights down there far below the windows of our penthouse flat, trying to convince me that the whole point was safe and easy. Standing there in my bare feet on the cold marble stone, the cold cup of chamomile I’d been sipping forgotten in my hands, I didn’t mind. Because soon enough, Adrian would come through that door, shed his coat, his arms go around me from behind, and his lips on the back of my neck the way they always were. proof of our presence.

Three years married and I still got butterflies when I thought his name. Adrian Blackwood.Dark eyes, the kind that could freeze you in your tracks, a heavy, rough sound as he spoke, as if sharing a revelation, a shared, unspoken truth between the two of them. He managed Blackwood Enterprises like a military general: crisp, unreachable. Around me, he let his hair down. He listened as I launched into a discussion of the newly installed, stunning new piece by Rothko we had installed at the gallery. He chuckled at my bad puns. He took me out last weekend, down into the streets of the city, into a small, dark jazz club, slow-danced me, embarrassingly, as neither of us had the faintest clue as to the rhythm. “You’re the entire damn world, Cecilia,” he said, his words pressed against my hair. I believed every word.

My phone buzzed on the counter. Isabel.

*Hey beautiful. Bad day. Can I come drown in wine and cry on your couch? Bringing the good pinot. 🖤*

I grinned despite the ache already forming behind my ribs. *Door code’s the same. Get here before I drink it all myself.*

Only one person could burst into my life and make my life feel fuller instead of more crowded. Isabel Chen was my partner in crime, glued to my hip since our sophomore year, bonding over ramen noodles at 3 a.m. and screeching at their terrible blind dates and comforting each other when Izzy's mom got cancer. She was a super-intelligent, quick-witted, and effortlessly stunning woman. Recently, though, Isabel hadn't been herself. Stress at work, she said. I believed her, though. I always did.

She arrived smelling like rain and vanilla, heels clicking, bottle already uncorked by the time she kicked the door shut. “God, Cece, you look like you just stepped out of a magazine.” She hugged me so tight I felt her heartbeat against mine. “What’s the glow? New skincare or did Adrian finally propose again?”

I laughed, shaky. “I think… I might be pregnant.”

Her eyes went wide, then shiny. “Shut up. Shut. Up.” She grabbed my hands. “Show me.”

We huddled in the bathroom like we were cheating on a test in high school. Three minutes later the two pink lines stared back at us and I started crying—ugly, hiccuping sobs that made Isabel laugh and cry at the same time.

“You’re going to be the most annoyingly perfect mom,” she whispered, wiping my cheeks with her thumbs. “Adrian’s going to lose his mind—in the good way.”

We snuggled up on the couch and a snack from the Thai joint and the wine, half a glass into the empty bottle. I was being careful. I read that Isabel had been telling me how her douche-bag boss was making a pass at her and making her feel like he was cornering her again in the copy room, and I was saying how I was scared, but also how I was kind of thrilled at the same time. She was looking at her phone and scowling and then ridiculously smiling at me in a way that I knew I was catching.

“He’s late,” I said around nine, glancing at the clock.

“He’s always late lately,” she replied, overly flippant. “Big merger or whatever.”

The elevator dinged.

Adrian emerged into the scene by himself. Loosely tied tie and shaggy hair as though he had run his hands through it once too often. A pink smudge of lipstick visible on his tie. Pink? This candy-floss colour? Not my kind of colour. I felt my stomach drop half an inch.

“Hey, baby.” He came over to me, kissed my forehead, and he held the kiss, like he was breathing me in. “Sorry. Hell of a day.”

Isabel stood, gathering her bag. “I’ll leave you two. Big news deserves privacy.” She hugged me again, longer this time, then looked at Adrian. “Night.”

The door clicked shut and silence swallowed the room.

I waited until he poured his scotch, until he sat beside me. Then I pulled the test from my pocket and set it on his knee.

“We’re having a baby.”

He stared at the stick. His face had looked blank not happy, not shocked, just… empty. TThen he pulled me into his arms, hard enough the air left my lungs.

“That’s Jesus, Cecilia. A baby.” His voice cracked on the last word. He kissed me hard, desperate almost, like he was trying to erase something.

But the lipstick was still there. And when his phone buzzed on the table he flipped it face-down without looking.

The next morning, while preparing his coffee humming away as if everything were back to normal as if nothing bad were happening in this world anymore.. He was kissing the top of my head; he was calling me “mama.” We would have dinner tonight at Luigi's to celebrate properly.

I went to the gallery, arranged frames, smiled at clients, but my mind kept circling back to that pink mark. By noon I couldn’t stand it anymore. I texted Isabel.

Lunch? I’m freaking out a little.

Our spot. 1 pm. I’ve got you.

The café patio was warm, sunlight dappling the table. Isabel arrived flushed, sunglasses hiding her eyes. We ordered, talked baby names—Elias, Luna—then I finally said it.

“There was lipstick on his shirt last night. Not mine.”

She went still. “Cece… it’s probably nothing. Client. Assistant. You know how those offices are.”

“I know.” I forced a laugh. “I’m being ridiculous.”

She reached across and squeezed my fingers. “You’re not. You’re pregnant. Hormones are evil little liars. Call me tonight after dinner, okay? I love you.”

I drove home replaying her words, trying to believe them.

But the doubt had teeth now.

Adrian emerged into the scene by himself. Loosely tied tie and shaggy hair as though he had run his hands through it once too often. A pink smudge of lipstick visible on his tie. Pink? This candy-floss colour? Not my kind of colour. I felt my stomach drop half an inch.

And then I heard her voice through the cracked door to the conference room.

“…can’t pretend this doesn’t change everything, Adrian.”

Isabel.

My blood turned to ice.

“Isabel, not here,” he snapped, low and furious. “She’s pregnant. It changes everything.”

A bitter laugh—hers. “Pregnant? You think a baby erases what you did? You married her to punish her. Her father’s signature on that deal sent your dad to an early grave. You told me that yourself. You said you wanted her to feel what you felt.”

I pressed my palm to my mouth so I wouldn’t scream.

Adrian’s voice dropped. “I know what I said. But somewhere along the line… it stopped being about revenge.”

“Oh please.” Her tone turned venomous. “You’ve been fucking me for six months while you played house with her. And now I’m the one carrying your child. The real heir. Not her little accident.”

The room spun.

I shoved the door open.

They both froze.Adrian mid-step toward her, Isabel’s hand still on his sleeve.

“Cecilia—” His face crumpled.

“Is it true?” My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “You married me… for revenge?”

He took a step. “Baby, listen—”

“Don’t.” Tears streamed hot down my cheeks. “Just tell me. Did my father kill yours?”

Silence answered first. Then, quietly: “Your father’s decision… cost my father his life. Yes.”

“And you?” I looked at Isabel, the girl who’d held me through every breakup, every panic attack. “You’re pregnant with his baby?”

She lifted her chin. “Yes. And unlike you, I’m not disposable.”

Something inside me snapped.

I turned to run.

Adrian grabbed my arm. “Cecilia, wait—”

I stumbled backward, my hand on my stinging face, looking at the man I loved.

“You hit me!” I whispered.

Horror was in his eyes. “I did not mean—Cece, I—”

I didn’t wait for the rest.

I ran.

Out of the building, onto the street. Rain falling down on me in sheets. I had a batch of texts, name flashing on the screen repeatedly. I tucked the device into my purse, jumped into the seat of my own car. I just wanted to leave. Anywhere.

The storm black mirrored the roads. I clutched the wheel of the car and sobbed convulsively, my eyes nearly a blur. My hand rose to my stomach.

“I’m sorry, little one,” I managed to whisper. “Your daddy doesn’t want us. But I do. I swear I do.”

A truck horn sounded—too close, too loud.

I yanked the wheel.

Tires screamed.

The guardrail gave way like paper.

Then cold. So much cold.

Water flowed in through the cracked window.

My final thought before the darkness took me was ridiculously simple:

I wish I could tell him that the baby’s heart rate sounds like a tiny drum.