My husband drove the only car out of a wildfire evacuation zone with his mother and his mistress inside. I was six months pregnant, standing in thick smoke, begging him not to abandon me. Three months later, Brett Keene stood beneath ballroom lights collecting donations for wildfire survivors. Then I entered with the baby he had left behind…

The night the wildfire reached us, the sky beyond our cabin had turned a sickening shade of orange.

Ash drifted onto the porch like filthy snow. My phone had already sounded two evacuation warnings, and everyone along Pine Ridge Road had either escaped or was rushing bags into their vehicles.

I stood in the hallway with one hand supporting my stomach and the other wrapped around the SUV keys.

“Brett, we have to go now,” I said.

My husband walked out of the bedroom, his jaw tense and his phone pressed against his ear.

Behind him, his mother, Eleanor, fastened her expensive cream-colored coat as though the evacuation were merely an inconvenience.

At the bottom of the staircase stood Tessa Vale.

Tessa, whom Brett claimed was only assisting with a charity project.

Tessa, whose overnight bag rested beside our front door.

Tessa, who refused to meet my eyes.

I stared at Brett.

“What is she doing here?”

He reached for the keys.

I moved backward.

“Answer me.”

Outside, the wind changed direction. Smoke pressed against the glass. Somewhere farther down the road, a car horn began blaring and did not stop.

“Natalie,” Brett said in that measured voice he always used when he wanted me to believe I was being unreasonable. “This is not the time.”

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s time to leave.”

I turned toward the entrance.

Brett caught my wrist.

Not hard enough to leave a mark. Only hard enough to remind me that he was stronger, quicker, and no longer interested in listening.

Then he pulled the keys from my hand.

I went still.

“Brett.”

“I need to get my mother out first.”

“I’m your wife.”

His gaze lowered briefly to my stomach, then shifted away.

“I know.”

Those two words cut deeper than denial would have.

Eleanor brushed past me toward the porch.

“Brett, get in the car,” she snapped. “If Natalie wants to stand here making a scene, let her.”

My throat tightened.

Tessa followed Eleanor outside in silence.

I rushed after them, still wearing house slippers, my cardigan hanging open in the hot wind filled with smoke.

The SUV’s engine was already running.

Eleanor climbed into the passenger seat.

Tessa got into the back.

The back seat.

The place that should have been mine.

“Brett, please,” I said, holding onto the open driver’s door. “I’m six months pregnant.”

He refused to look at me.

“You have your phone. Call someone.”

“The road is closing.”

“Then stop arguing and call.”

He pulled the door shut.

I struck the glass with my palm.

Tessa lowered her eyes to her lap.

Eleanor continued staring through the windshield.

Brett lowered the window only two inches.

“You always make everything worse than it is,” he said.

Then he drove away.

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