The pain started as a strange, unwelcome warmth.
Clare Jennings looked down at her hands, submerged in the small ceramic bowl at the nail salon. Karis Manning, the technician, was smiling, her eyes bright and friendly.
"Just a new kind of cuticle softener," Karis said. "It's all the rage in Europe. Chase said you deserve only the best."
Chase.
The name was a balm. Clare's fiancé, Chase Strong. He had swept into her life like a prince from a storybook, promising a world of glittering parties and adoration that silenced the constant, nagging disapproval of her own parents.
He had promised her the world. Her hands had delivered it.
As a top hand model, Clare's hands were her life. Insured for seven figures, they paid for the sleek apartment overlooking Central Park and were the reason for the diamond glittering on her left ring finger.
Now, that life was burning.
The warmth intensified, shifting to a prickling heat, then to a sharp, undeniable sting.
Clare pulled her hands from the bowl with a gasp.
Water splashed onto the pristine white counter.
"Is something wrong?" Karis asked, her smile unwavering.
Clare stared at her fingertips. The skin around her nails was turning an angry red. Raw. Inflamed.
"It burns," Clare said, her voice tight.
"Oh, it's just the product working," Karis said, reaching for a towel. "It can be a little intense at first."
She was still smiling. It was the same private, knowing smile she'd given Chase at their engagement party an hour ago, a smile that had made something in Clare's stomach twist. Karis was Chase's high school friend, a surprise guest he'd insisted on inviting.
Clare stood up abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "I need some air."
She stumbled out of the salon, leaving Karis and her fixed smile behind. The cool evening air did nothing to soothe the fire spreading across her skin.
She didn't go back in. The walk to the apartment was a blur of panic. It was an accident. A bad reaction. It had to be. But the image of Karis's smile was seared into her mind.
Later that night, the burning had subsided to a dull throb. The skin was peeling around her nail beds, tiny blisters forming under the surface. She hid her hands in the pockets of her robe when Chase came home.
He didn't notice. He was glowing, high off the success of the party.
"Everyone loved you," he said, kissing her forehead. "My perfect Clare."
He spun tales of their future-the wedding, the Hamptons house, the children-but the words, usually a comfort, felt hollow.
The next morning, she knew. A familiar nausea she'd been ignoring for a week finally demanded attention. In the master bathroom, her hands trembled so badly she could barely hold the plastic stick.
Two pink lines.
Pregnant.
For a breathtaking moment, hope washed over her. A baby. Their baby. This would fix everything. It would anchor them, erase the memory of Karis's smile and the throbbing in her hands.
She found Chase in his study, looking over schematics for his latest tech venture.
"Chase," she said, her voice soft.
He looked up, a flicker of impatience in his eyes. "I'm busy, Clare."
"I'm pregnant."
The words hung in the air. The silence stretched. His face was a mask of cool neutrality. He didn't smile. He didn't move.
Then, he slowly folded the papers on his desk.
"Get your coat," he said, his voice flat. "We're going for a drive."
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