Peter must’ve set all this up earlier. I stood there, staring at the table, dazed, when the restaurant called. 

“Hi there, just checking in—what time can we expect your arrival?” 

I watched the curtain flutter in the breeze. “Sorry. Change of plans. Please cancel the reservation.” 

Next to the cake sat a tiny velvet box. I opened it—a diamond ring. 

My chest tightened. I ended the call, but my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. 

Somehow, Cindy found the energy to text mid-labor. 

The first message was a photo—Peter peeling an apple at her hospital bedside. 

[See? One word from me, and he’s right here taking care of me.] 

Then another pic—her huge baby bump. 

[Our little one can’t wait to meet the world. Yuna, Peter’s REAL family now? That’s me and our baby.] 

*** 

I shut the jewelry box and chucked it straight into the trash. 

Bottle of Romanée-Conti in hand, I stepped onto the balcony, letting the wind smack my face while the city lights blinked like nothing had happened. 

Inside, my phone wouldn’t quit ringing. 

I staggered back in and grabbed it. 

Peter had called a bunch—messages stacked up. 

When it rang again, I finally picked up. 

“Yuna, thank God. I was freaking out,” he said, all breathless. 

I stayed quiet. Let him keep acting.