By August, Kiara was eight months into her pregnancy, though to anyone who looked at her, she seemed hardly more than four or five months along. Her belly was small, almost delicate, as though the life inside her was hesitant to take space. It disturbed her sometimes—shouldn't she be showing more by now? But she shoved the worry aside; she had learned to bury her fears the way she buried her bruises, beneath layers of silence and long sleeves.
When her company closed a huge deal, the executives insisted on throwing a party. More than anyone else, it was Kiara they wanted to celebrate. Her designs had turned the tide of their brand, giving them a new edge in the market. For once, she felt her efforts recognized.
She told Rick, bracing herself for his disapproval. At first, he had scowled, muttered something about unnecessary gatherings. But after a tense silence, he finally said, "Fine. We'll go."
The night of the celebration, Kiara discovered none of her dresses fit. Her body had changed in ways she hadn't expected—swelling in odd places, shrinking in others. In the mirror, she barely recognized herself. She felt both fragile and powerful, carrying life yet carrying so much pain. Rick, for once, seemed in a good mood. He wore a sharp suit, complimented her softly, and even smiled when they entered the hall.
Inside, lights shimmered off champagne glasses and laughter echoed across the room. Colleagues congratulated Kiara, but many turned to Rick with praises as though her achievements were his own. He smiled broadly, shook hands, and played the part of the supportive husband. Her bosses liked him instantly. Only Vivian stood apart, watching with careful eyes. She saw what others couldn't—the stiffness in Kiara's smile, the flicker of unease in her eyes.
Later in the evening, Kiara found herself alone at a side table, nursing a drink. She felt a sense of unease wash over her. The party was in full swing, with colleagues laughing and chatting around her, but she couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped. She glanced around the room, taking in the dim lighting and the soft hum of jazz music playing in the background. The champagne glasses sparkled like diamonds, and the air was thick with the scent of perfume and hors d'oeuvres.
Kiara's thoughts turned to her situation with Rick, and she felt a familiar sense of fear creeping in. She wondered if anyone would notice if she just disappeared, if anyone would care. The sound of clinking glasses and laughter seemed to grow louder, more oppressive.
She had been thinking about telling Vivian everything—every bruise, every scream, every night she cried herself to sleep. But the fear always returned. What if Vivian pitied her? Worse, what if Vivian convinced her to leave? And then what? Where would she go, carrying a child, with nowhere to run?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a deep, unfamiliar voice.
"Can we talk business?"
Startled, Kiara looked up. A tall, handsome man stood before her, his eyes not flirtatious but filled with genuine concern. She realized her own eyes must have betrayed sadness. So she forced a smile, masking her despair.
Before the man could say another word, Rick appeared. He slid between them with a hand on Kiara's shoulder, his smile sharp as a knife. The stranger bowed politely and excused himself, leaving without protest.
"Time to go," Rick murmured, not a suggestion but a command.
By the time they left the party, it wasn't even eleven. Kiara clutched her purse tightly, dreading the storm that she sensed was gathering.