After I married another man, he went mad with regret.

I crossed blizzards to reach Antarctica for the ninety-ninth time, begging my husband to come home.

He refused—again.

His first love was there, and that was enough for him to stay.

So I finally stopped trying.

Five years later, during my birthday dinner, he pushed open the door as if summoned by fate.

His gaze dropped to the slight curve of my belly.

Rage. Shock. Something feral.

His voice cut through the room: “Whose child is that?”

I smiled, calm and untouchable.

“It’s not yours.

That’s all you need to know.”

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