Love Signed in Blood

Ava Morrison pressed her palm against the bathroom mirror, studying her reflection with the critical eye of a woman who hadn't slept well in weeks. At twenty-eight, she looked older than she should. The pregnancy glow everyone promised had never arrived. Instead, she got swollen ankles, constant heartburn, and a husband who worked later and later every night. "You're being paranoid," she whispered to herself. The woman in the mirror offered no comfort. Just tired eyes, tangled blonde hair pulled into a messy bun, and a protruding belly that made everything bending, sleeping, even breathing feel like a grand effort. Thirty-seven weeks. Just three more until her due date. Three more weeks of waddling around their modest two-bedroom apartment in downtown Columbus, Ohio, pretending everything was fine when her gut screamed otherwise. Ava dried her hands and checked her phone. 9:47 PM. Derek had texted three hours ago: Working late on the Henderson account. Don't wait up. Love you. She'd replied with a heart emoji, the same response she always gave. The same response she'd given for eight years of marriage, through better and worse, through sickness and health, through the heartbreaking year they'd tried and failed to conceive before this miracle pregnancy finally took. Her phone buzzed. Not Derek … Morgan. You awake? Ava smiled for the first time all day. Morgan Shaw had been her anchor since sixth grade, when they'd bonded over matching lunchboxes and a shared hatred of the school's bland pizza. Twenty years of friendship. Twenty years of sleepovers, broken hearts, family drama, and secrets whispered in the dark. Morgan was more than a best friend. She was the sister Ava never had. Barely, Ava typed back. This kid is doing gymnastics on my bladder. Poor thing. Want company? I'm five minutes away. Ava hesitated. She looked terrible, felt worse, and the apartment was a disaster of unwashed dishes and unfolded laundry. But Morgan had seen her at her absolute worst—the night her father died, the morning after her first breakup with Derek, the day of her miscarriage scare last year. Morgan didn't care about dirty dishes. Come over, she typed. I'll put on coffee. On my way. Love you. Love you too. Ava shuffled to the kitchen, grateful for the distraction. Morgan always knew when she needed someone. It was like a superpower, that ability to sense trouble from miles away. Derek used to joke they were psychically connected. Lately, he didn't joke about much of anything. She'd just started the coffeemaker when her phone buzzed again. Morgan again, but this time a text so strange Ava read it twice before it made sense. Derek's car is outside Giovanni's. I'm parked across the street. He's not alone. The words didn't compute. Giovanni's was an upscale Italian restaurant in the Short North Arts District, the kind of place couples went for anniversaries and Valentine's Day. Derek hadn't mentioned any client dinners there. He hadn't mentioned anything except the Henderson account and how stressed he was, how much pressure he was under, how he needed her to understand why he couldn't be home. Ava's fingers trembled as she typed: Who's with him? Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then a photo loaded. The restaurant had floor-to-ceiling windows, and Morgan had clearly zoomed in from across the street. The image was slightly grainy but unmistakable: Derek sat at a corner table, a glass of red wine in front of him. Across from him, a woman with sleek dark hair leaned forward, laughing at something he'd said. Her hand rested on the table. His hand covered it. Ava stared at the photo until her vision blurred. Then she zoomed in on the woman's face, praying she wouldn't recognize her. But she did. The dark hair was different—longer, sleeker, professionally highlighted. The makeup was heavier, the clothes more expensive. But the smile was the same one that had grinned at Ava across countless lunch tables. The same one that had comforted her at her father's funeral. The same one that had promised, just last week, that Derek was a good man who would never hurt her. Morgan Shaw was holding hands with Ava's husband. The coffeemaker beeped, signaling it was done. The sound was so absurdly normal that Ava almost laughed. Coffee. She'd been making coffee while her best friend sat in a restaurant touching her husband's hand. Her phone buzzed again. I'm sorry you had to see it like this. I'm coming over. We need to talk. Ava stared at the message. Then she threw up in the kitchen sink. The next thirty minutes existed in fragments. Ava remembered rinsing her mouth, splashing cold water on her face. Remembered looking at her pregnant belly in the mirror and thinking, This can't be real. Remembered sitting on the couch, clutching a pillow, staring at the door. When the knock finally came, she didn't move. "Ava? It's me. Open up." Morgan's voice. The same voice that had sung along to Taylor Swift on road trips, that had whispered secrets during late-night phone calls, that had said "I love you too" not twenty minutes ago. Ava forced herself to stand. Forced her swollen feet to carry her to the door. Forced her hand to turn the knob. Morgan stood in the hallway, her perfect dark hair now loose around her shoulders, her expensive coat open to reveal a silk blouse and tailored pants. She looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine. She looked like she'd just come from a date. "Ava—" "Don't." Ava's voice came out hollow. "Just tell me why." Morgan's expression shifted through several emotions too quickly to read. Guilt. Fear. And something else, something that flickered in her eyes like a distant fire. "Can I come in? Please? It's cold out here." Ava stepped aside. She didn't know why. Maybe because twenty years of habit couldn't be broken in twenty minutes. Maybe because some part of her still hoped this was all a terrible misunderstanding. Morgan walked past her into the living room, her heels clicking against the laminate flooring. She stopped in the centre of the room, turned, and for a moment she looked exactly like the girl Ava had known since sixth grade … uncertain, scared, desperate for approval. Then the moment passed. "How long?" Ava asked. "How long what?" "How long have you been sleeping with my husband?” . . . ….

"How long have you been sleeping with my husband?" The words hung in the air like smoke. Morgan didn't flinch. Didn't deny it. She just stood there, beautiful and composed, while Ava's world crumbled around her. "Eight months," Morgan said quietly. Eight months. Ava did the math. Eight months ago, she'd been twelve weeks pregnant. Eight months ago, she'd told Morgan she was finally going to be a mother. Eight months ago, Morgan had cried happy tears and promised to be the best goddamn aunt that kid ever had. "That's when I told you I was pregnant," Ava whispered. "That's when you found out Derek and I were finally having a baby." Morgan's jaw tightened. "Yes." "You've been sleeping with my husband for eight months, and you smiled in my face and held my hand and pretended to be happy for me?" "I was happy for you." Morgan's voice carried an edge Ava had never heard before. "I was happy you finally got what you wanted." Ava's hands clenched at her sides. "Then why? Why him? Wh