I was struggling to zip up my dress—a floor-length navy silk gown that used to slip on like water, but now felt like a vice grip. It was a size larger than I used to wear, but the fabric still pulled tight across my healing C-section scar, a dull throb reminding me that my body had been sliced open only four months ago.

In the bassinet near the window, the twins, Noah and Emma, were crying. It was a harmony of need—Noah’s sharp, rhythmic wails and Emma’s softer, whimpering fuss. They were hungry. Or tired. Or maybe they just sensed the tension in the room, thick and suffocating like humidity before a storm.

Liam stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting his onyx cufflinks. He was the picture of success: thirty-four years old, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, wearing a tuxedo that cost more than my first car. He looked at my reflection in the mirror, his upper lip curling into a sneer of distaste.

“Are you really wearing that?” he asked, not turning around.

I froze, my hand trembling on the zipper. “It’s the only formal dress that fits right now, Liam. And barely.”

He turned then, scanning me from head to toe. His eyes didn’t linger on my face, or the dark circles under my eyes that makeup couldn’t quite hide. They lingered on my waist. On the softness of my arms. On the way the dress clung to my post-partum hips.

“It looks like a tent,” he scoffed. “Can’t you wear Spanx? Or a girdle? The Board is going to be there. The investors. I need you to look like a CEO’s wife, Ava. Not a dairy cow.”

I looked in the rearview mirror as we pulled away. The street behind me was clear. No obstacles. No dead weight. Just the road ahead, wide open and waiting.