The bouquet of roses sat tauntingly on the coffee table, their fragrance wafting up like an unwanted reminder of my latest catastrophe.
Nestled among the petals was a tiny note that read, "Baby names: Ethan Jr. for a boy, Xandria II for a girl? Too much? Let's brainstorm together. Can't wait to see you. Love, E."
I wanted to scream.
Not because Ethan was sending flowers—I had gotten used to his grand, occasionally ridiculous romantic gestures—but because this whole fiasco started with a stupid, heat-of-the-moment lie.
I was not pregnant.
But now Ethan believed I was, my brothers were practically assembling a nursery, and I was stuck in this farce with no way out.
The Alcove living room felt suffocating, the air heavy with unspoken words and too many glares aimed at Ethan, who had just walked in with the audacity of a man about to propose.
And honestly? I was too tired to stop him.
*******
Earlier...
