Chapter 2

When I scrolled to Selena's latest Instagram post, I suddenly understood what Alex meant by those words.

The latest post was from three hours ago.

A grid of nine photos.

My breath caught.

A set of elegant maternity photos, though her belly was still flat, showing no sign of pregnancy.

Caption: New chapter. Decided to document this most wondrous journey through images, leaving memories every month. Grateful for life, grateful for this precious gift. #anticipation #gratitude #newlife

My finger stopped on the seventh photo.

It was no longer just Selena.

Alex stood half a step behind her, wearing the dark gray cashmere sweater I had given him. He wasn't looking at the camera. His gaze fell toward Selena's slightly curved belly, with a softness I had never seen before.

I scrolled to the comments.

A sea of blessings.

"You deserve happiness."

"You'll be the most beautiful mother."

"Mr. Norston is so gentle."

"God, the way he looks at you..."

She was already two months pregnant.

Two months.

What did two months mean?

It meant that on the day we first argued about this—exactly one month ago—she was already one month pregnant.

I suddenly felt absurd.

Before he had even uttered the first word, Selena's body was already nurturing his child.

The line I had defended for an entire month—from beginning to end—was nothing but a futile, ridiculous farce that he watched from his high horse.

"I'm not asking for your consent. I'm informing you."

"This has already been decided."

Now I truly understood the weight of those words.

I was the last fool to be told.

Ten years.

I had been by Alex's side for ten years.

What did these ten years even count for?

Just then, my phone buzzed again.

From my mentor, Dr. Amina Sharma. For the past six months, this scholar in her fifties had been earnestly trying to persuade me to join the project team.

I couldn't forget the regret in her eyes when I refused her.

I had said: "I'm sorry, Doctor. I'm going back to New York. Someone... is waiting for me."

That someone was now standing in another woman's maternity photoshoot.

"Isabella, the final seat for the project is reserved until 11:59 PM New York time this Sunday. If you still decide to join, this is your last chance. Upon entry, highest-level communication restrictions will be enforced for a minimum of 18 months. Consider carefully, but if you come, I'll be waiting."

The email was brief, still her characteristically sincere invitation.

I looked down at the maternity photos on my phone screen again.

It was time to make the right choice.

I opened Dr. Amina's email and replied:

"Doctor, I'm in. I will arrive at the project site in 12 days."

I sent an email to the wedding planner, CC'ing St. Patrick's Cathedral, the hotel, the orchestra, the florist, and all the dress coordinators.

"To all concerned parties: I, Isabella Kane, hereby officially cancel all wedding-related activities originally scheduled. All contracts are terminated effective immediately. Penalty fees will be paid according to contract terms."

In twelve days, I was supposed to be the star of a wedding of the century, a perfect bride.

But that bride was already dead.

I knew that the Isabella Kane who had stayed up all night at seventeen, excited about some gene sequence in the lab, had been sleeping somewhere inside me all along.

Now, it was time to wake her up.