Chapter 1

Annika

The late afternoon sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Charleston studio, painting everything in stripes of liquid gold. It’s my favorite time of day, when the Lowcountry heat finally gives up its ghost and the world softens at the edges. The air hangs thick and sweet with the smells of turpentine, linseed oil, and the lemon-verbena candle Simone brought over yesterday. “To inspire non-tacky art for once,” she’d said, her lips twitching with a smile she was trying to suppress.

I snort at the memory, dipping a number six filbert brush into a glob of cadmium yellow so bright it almost hums. “Don’t you listen to her, Little Bean,” I murmur, my free hand coming to rest on the firm, high swell of my stomach.

A distinct, rolling flutter answers me from within, a secret language we’re still inventing.

“Auntie Simone is a loving, supportive, ridiculously picky tastemaker with the aesthetic sensibilities of a Scandinavian minimalist,” I continue, sweeping the yellow across the crest of a wave on my canvas. “We, on the other hand, appreciate a little chaos.”

I hum an off-key rendition of a song that’s been stuck in my head all week, a jaunty little folk tune about leaving and coming home. The commission is for a new boutique hotel on King Street, a massive seascape meant to capture the wild, joyful spirit of Folly Beach. The pay is staggering. Enough to silence the threatening red letters on the overdue electricity bill pinned to my corkboard, enough to cover rent for six months, and enough to finally buy the ridiculously expensive, buttery-soft leather armchair I’ve been visiting at the antique market like a long-lost relative.

But even with that security, a familiar pang of something I can’t quite name—guilt, maybe, or just wonder—settles in my chest. The real payment has been the quiet purpose of these last eight months. The feeling of being part of something bigger than my own solitary, paint-splattered world.

My phone buzzes against a paint-smeared jar, Simone’s face flashing on the screen. Her signature cat-eye liner is sharp enough to cut glass, even in the tiny photo. I swipe to answer, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I search for a rag.

“If you’re calling to slander the integrity of my artistic process, I’m hanging up,” I say instead of hello.

“Please. Your artistic process involves eighties power ballads and consulting a fetus for color-palette advice. It has no integrity,” she shoots back, her voice a warm, familiar melody against the faint clinking sounds of her gallery. “I’m calling for a status update. You talked to the Bostonians today?”

‘The Bostonians’ are Cecile and Philip Wade. My couple. The parents-to-be. A wave of genuine affection washes over me, so potent it makes me smile. “This morning. Chloe is now convinced he’s going to be a world-class pianist because he kicks whenever she plays Mozart. And Philip has apparently bookmarked the websites for three different prep schools. He claims it’s a joke.”

“It’s never a joke with people who use ‘summer’ as a verb,” Simone says dryly. “Are they still on that babymoon trip?”

“Yep. Vermont. They sent me a picture from some scenic overlook. Cecile was wearing this huge, fluffy white hat and Philip was looking at her like she personally hung the moon and all the stars.” My voice softens. I wipe a smudge of blue from my wrist, the turquoise paint a permanent part of my skin. “They’re just so… good, Sim. They’re going to be incredible parents.”

There’s a beat of silence on her end, a familiar, loaded pause I’ve learned to anticipate. “I’m sure they will be,” she says, her tone carefully neutral. “I just worry about you, Nika. You’re not just carrying their baby. You’re carrying their entire stock of hopes and dreams. That’s a heavy lift.”

I sigh, leaning back against my stool and rubbing the small of my back. “Remember when I dated that musician who thought ‘paying his dues’ meant I should cover his rent indefinitely?”

Simone groans. “Ugh. Banjo Dave. A dark time.”

“I was all in on him, too. I saw the heart of it, the potential. And you told me to guard my own heart. You were right.” I shift my weight, looking around my sun-drenched studio. My sanctuary. “This is different. It’s not about me. It’s better this way, to love them, to love this baby for them. It makes it all feel right. It’s not a transaction, Sim, it’s… a collaboration.”

“A collaboration that ends in a few weeks when you hand over the baby you’re currently using as your tiny art critic,” she says, the bite in her words a shield for her concern. “Last week they sent you that ridiculous food delivery box. The week before it was the prenatal massage. They’re great at grand gestures, Nika. I just want you to be prepared for the grand finale.”

“I am prepared,” I lie, my hand instinctively tightening over my belly. I know it will be a tearing, a reconfiguration of my entire universe. But the image I hold in my mind, the one that gets me through the doubt, is of Cecille’s face when she holds her son. Of Philip’s hand on his wife’s shoulder. That’s the final brushstroke. “Besides, they’ve made it so clear. I’m not just some incubator. They want me there for Christmases, birthdays… they said I’m family now.”

“Okay, okay,” she relents, and I hear the smile in her voice now. “I’ll shelve my well-founded skepticism for today. As long as you promise you’re taking care of yourself. And that you will cash that commission check the second it hits your account. Buy the damn chair, Annika.”

I laugh, a real, full-bodied sound that makes Little Bean give a happy little kick. “I will. I promise.”

We hang up, and I turn back to the canvas, but my focus is gone. I pull up the picture Philip sent this morning, my thumb tracing over their smiling faces. They’re on a winding mountain road, a spectacular vista of autumn foliage blazing in reds and golds behind them. Cecile is beaming, her face tilted up towards Philip. He’s looking down at her, his expression one of pure, unadulterated adoration. They are the epitome of a happy ending. I’m giving them the one thing they couldn’t have, and in return, they’ve given me a sense of peace and stability I haven’t felt in years. A foundation to build my own life on.

My phone rings again, startling me. An unknown number. Boston area code.

A smile touches my lips. It must be Philip. He probably lost his phone again and is borrowing a stranger’s to call and tell me another terrible dad joke.

I swipe to answer, ready to play along. “Let me guess, Little Bean’s future prep school has a fifty-year waiting list and you need me to put his name down now?”

The voice on the other end is not Philip's. It’s deep, formal, and coated in a layer of something so cold it feels like it’s sucking the warmth right out of the room.

“Is this Ms. Annika Sharma?”

My smile falters. My body goes still. “It is. Who is this?”

“My name is Joel Fisher. I am chief counsel for Wade Industries.”

My heart gives a nervous, painful thud against my ribs. Wade Industries. Philip’s family company. The one he and his older brother ran. The one he’d once laughingly referred to as “the family mausoleum where joy goes to die.” He never talked about it. “Is… is everything alright?”

There’s a pause. It’s not a hesitation. It’s a measured, calculated space in time that feels like a stone dropping into a deep, dark well. In that silence, the entire, vibrant world of my studio shifts on its axis. The golden light suddenly feels harsh and interrogating. The familiar, comforting smell of paint turns acrid in my throat.

“Ms. Sharma,” the man says, his voice utterly devoid of emotion, a flat line in a world that was, a moment ago, bursting with color. “There’s been an accident. In Vermont. I’m afraid I have terrible news regarding Philip and Cecile Wade.”

The paintbrush slips from my numb fingers.