I was staring at the blinking cursor on my computer screen, my thoughts drifting far from the spreadsheet I was supposed to finish, when a knock broke the quiet rhythm of the office. Before I could answer, the door swung open and the delivery guy leaned in, holding a bright pink bakery box tied with a white ribbon.
“Good afternoon, Emma! This is for you!” he said cheerfully, drawing the attention of half the room.
A few coworkers glanced over, smiling knowingly. Someone whispered, “Lucky you,” probably assuming Jake had surprised me with something sweet just because.
I forced a smile and took the box, my stomach tightening for reasons I couldn’t explain. Jake never sent cakes to my office—not because he didn’t care, but because he was practical, reserved, and rarely spontaneous.
“Thanks,” I said quietly, placing the box on my desk.
I waited until the delivery guy left and the office noise settled back into its usual hum before lifting the lid. The smell of vanilla frosting hit me first. Then I saw the writing. Neatly piped in dark chocolate letters across the pink icing were four words that made my vision blur:
“I am divorcing you.”
For a second, my brain refused to process what my eyes were seeing. I laughed once, short and breathless, convinced this had to be some kind of cruel mistake.
Then I noticed what lay beside the cake: a small white stick. Plastic. Familiar. A positive pregnancy test.
The world tilted.
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