The Price of a Sunrise

It was nearly noon by the time Claire unlocked the front door of the sprawling estate in Henderson.

The house was dead silent, smelling faintly of stale air and the lingering scent of expensive espresso from the morning before.

She walked upstairs, discarded her stained clothes in the laundry hamper, and crawled into bed without even washing her face, pulling the heavy duvet up over her shoulders as if she could seal herself away from the rest of the world.

She didn't call Vincent.

She didn't text him an update.

The pregnancy that had begun with two pink lines in the bathroom light had ended in a cold clinic office, and the man who had helped create it was still completely oblivious that his child had ever existed.

At 2:30 PM, the front door downstairs clicked open.

Loud, cheerful voices echoed up the grand staircase—a sound so jarringly out of place against the quiet grief in the bedroom that Claire flinched.

""I swear, if we don't get that mango cake into the fridge right now, the frosting is going to melt,"" Isabella’s voice chimed, light and breathless.

""Relax, Isabella. I told you I'd take care of it,"" Vincent’s deep, familiar voice replied, warm and indulgent in a way Claire hadn't heard directed at herself in over a year.

Heavy footsteps mounted the stairs, stopping right outside the master bedroom suite.