At Twenty Weeks, He Faked My Miscarriage

drenched St. Barts "engagement-moon," tanned and smug.

of fabrics and sketches, was eerily neat. All that remained of me

ers, signed. My lawyer

uard. He'd expected tears, recriminations, a d

. "What the hell is this, Amelia? You think this litt

eplied, my voice as calm and cool as the

ere he knew it would hurt: my work. He arranged for Kendra, under the ludicrous t

ed by a sycophantic assistant. She immediately began to critique m

picked up a sketch for a gown I'd poured my heart into, her lacquered nails leaving a smudge. "Oh, and he also mentioned

was

ucted dam of my comp

e studio. Two burly guards, whom I'd had the foresight

l and her... associate

chalkboard. "You can't do this to me! J

erted by a frantic call from Kendra. He stor

melia? You're petty! Jealous! You can't stand to see me happy!" He then delivered his masterstro

, and felt... nothing. Just a vast, echoing emptiness. H

r... consultant... need to leave my studio. And my life. F

Perhaps he saw something new in my eyes

is shoulder. "Don't worry, Jare-bear. We don't need her. We have each ot

ed my back an