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I toss and turn all night.

Well, tossing and turning is generous. It’s more like I readjust and hump my big-ass pregnancy pillow as I try to quiet my mind and find some sort of comfortable position to sleep in that doesn’t make my hips burn.

That’s becoming a harder and harder task as time goes on, but it’s the quieting my mind thing I’m having real trouble with.

I can’t stop replaying my conversation with Savannah, and I hate that I don’t even know where she is. She indicated that she’s in Vegas—I think she said something about how Tristan is here now, but that could be my memory playing tricks on me.

But that means she might be closer to him, and I don’t know what I did by hanging up on her. I’m not sure if I provoked an already angry bear or if she’ll simply let it go.

Of course she won’t let it go. It’s Tristan she’s fighting for, and if there’s anybody on Earth worth fighting for, it’s that man.

I have a doctor appointment this morning, and my mom volunteered to go with me since Tristan’s out of town. After breakfast, we head toward Davenport.

“The ultrasound looks good,” the doctor tells me. “I’d like you to stay on pelvic rest the next couple weeks, but you can resume normal activity otherwise.”

As soon as I hear that, I think about surprising Tristan in Vegas. “So it’s fine to travel?” I ask.

My mom’s eyes edge over to me as she gives me a disapproving look.

“Perfectly safe, though international travel isn’t recommended after twenty-eight weeks,” she says. “If you’re staying in the US, usually it’s thirty-six weeks provided it’s not a high-risk pregnancy.”

“Am I considered at risk?”

She shakes her head. “A low-lying placenta itself isn’t considered a high-risk condition, but do take it easy. It’s safest to travel in the second trimester, and you’re at the start of your third right now.”

Perfect.

It’s safe to fly to Tristan.

As soon as I get home, I’m booking my ticket.

My mom tries to talk me out of it on the way home. “He’ll be back Monday morning,” she argues. “Let him have his boy’s weekend. Maybe he’ll do this in lieu of a bachelor party. Have you picked a date yet?”

I shake my head. “I think I want to wait until the baby’s here. Maybe next year sometime. I’m not in a rush, and he just got divorced.” I think of Savannah’s blackmail. I think of Tiffany Gable and all the other women who want him for themselves. I even think of Stephanie and how she wants to come between Tristan and me.

Maybe rushing the wedding is the best thing we can do. We both know it’s what we want. We both know it’s inevitable—that we are inevitable. It might not completely stop the Savannahs from blackmailing or the Tiffanys from clamoring after my man or the Stephanies from working to break us apart, but it would strengthen our bond and, in turn, our fight against them.

What if I fly to Vegas this afternoon and we come back to Fallon Ridge married on Monday morning?

My mother would kill me if she missed my wedding…but she missed a lot of things in my life, and we’re still okay. She’d get over it, and we’d surely plan another wedding for public consumption.

The more I think about it, the more I love the idea.

The plan continues to formulate in my mind as I navigate toward home. I run to the bathroom, of course, once I get home, but when I’m done, my mom meets me in the kitchen. “I need to head over to the church a while. You’ll be okay?”

I nod.

“You’re not jetting off to Vegas, are you?”

I sigh. “Of course I am, Mama.”

She laughs. “Just be safe, okay?” She presses a kiss to my cheek and a hand to my belly. “Both of you.”

“We will.”

She heads out the door, and I get myself a cup of ice water as I start searching flights to Vegas. I’m debating whether to text him first or to surprise him by just showing up.

Texting first would ruin the surprise, obviously, but it would show him how much I trust him. I’m not just showing up out of the blue like I’m trying to catch him in the act of something.

On the other hand, a surprise sounds like fun.

I decide to settle for something in the middle.

Me: Doctor appointment went well today. She cleared me for normal activity (but, sadly, still on pelvic rest).

I wait a while for a reply, but one doesn’t come through.

And that’s when my brain starts playing tricks on me.

He’s not writing back because he’s at a pool and doesn’t have his phone in his pocket. That’s the first thing I tell myself.

But when an hour passes and he still hasn’t responded, I start to get annoyed. It’s probably the damn pregnancy hormones, but I can’t help it. Annoyance turns fairly quickly to accusations as they play out in my brain.

In my head, he’s in his swim trunks in a hot tub in Vegas surrounded by a bevy of gorgeous, scantily clad women as they feed him grapes and kiss him and tip whiskey onto his tongue since his hands are otherwise occupied under the water.

I send another text with that image in my mind even though a smarter version of myself would definitely not.

Me: I’m sure you’re busy with all the gorgeous women of Vegas so I won’t bother booking a flight out to surprise you.

I shouldn’t have sent that one. I immediately regret it.

I’m about to type a retraction text when the doorbell rings.

I’m not expecting any visitors, and my mom’s at work, so my first assumption is that it’s Stephanie since her favorite thing to do is drop by unannounced.

When I open the door, I gasp.

It’s not Stephanie.

It’s Christine Foster.

Dr. Cameron Foster’s wife.

Her eyes are hard and angry, and in her hand she holds a manila folder.

A sick feeling twists in my stomach and I feel a little dizzy. I have a feeling I already know what’s in that envelope.

She must’ve found the papers Tristan’s lawyer sent over to Cam.

She glances down at my stomach. “Cute baby bump. Is it my husband’s? Because he has rights, you know.”

She takes the manila folder between her hands and rips it in two, and my chest races. I grab onto the wall as the dizziness intensifies, the whole room spinning around me for a second, and then everything goes black.