The Price of a Sunrise

Footsteps approached the master bedroom door before Vincent could form a response.

Isabella pushed the door open, holding two iced lattes, her face flushed with the easy, carefree radiance of someone who had spent the morning being catered to by a billionaire.

""Vince, seriously, you left the front—"" Isabella stopped dead in her tracks.

She looked at Vincent’s ashen, terrified face, and then at Claire standing rigidly by the bed.

The triumphant smile vanished from Isabella’s lips, replaced by a sudden, nervous dart of her eyes.

""Is everything okay?"" Isabella asked, her voice dropping an octave. ""Did we... interrupt something?""

Claire turned her gaze slowly toward her best friend—the woman who had held her wedding bouquet, eaten at her table, and spent the last three months methodically dismantling Claire’s marriage while playing the victim.

""You didn't interrupt anything, Isabella,"" Claire said quietly. ""You got exactly what you wanted.""

Isabella swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably. ""Claire, don't look at me like that. You're making it weird.""

""She lost our baby, Isabella,"" Vincent said.

His voice was dead.

Completely, terrifyingly dead.

He didn't look at Isabella when he said it. His eyes remained fixed on Claire, wide with a horror that came too late to change anything.

Isabella’s iced coffees slipped from her fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor, the dark liquid splashing across her expensive shoes as she stared in absolute horror.