Chapter 1

The pen moved across the page like a surgeon's knife. Vivian Hale signed her name at the bottom of the dinner guest list — a formality Helena insisted on even for family — and the ink was still wet when she felt the floor tilt.

"Vivian." Helena's voice came from the far end of the dining room, clipped and precise. "The soup is getting cold."

Six days. Six days since the emergency delivery that had split Vivian open and reached inside her and pulled out a screaming, perfect boy named Theo. Six days of Helena's lists and schedules and quiet corrections. Six days of being told that the household ran on order, and that Vivian's body, still stitching itself back together, was not an acceptable reason for disorder.

Vivian pushed herself up from the bassinet. Theo slept in his white cotton swaddle, his small face peaceful, a wisp of dark hair barely visible above the wrap. She had been leaning over him — just for a moment, just to breathe — when the pen had been placed in her hand.

"Sign the list," Helena had said, "so we know who's here for dinner."

Who's here for dinner. As if Vivian were a guest. As if she had somewhere else to be.

She walked toward the dining table, her bare feet cold on the polished wood. The lavender silk nightgown clung to her skin, damp with sweat she couldn't seem to stop producing. The white cotton robe hung open, untied, too heavy for her shoulders. She had tried to dress properly — Helena had made it clear that appearing at dinner in a nightgown was already an insult — but the dress hung on her frame like it belonged to someone else, and she had given up.

The table was set for six, though only four chairs were occupied. Helena sat at the head, her silver chin-length bob catching the chandelier light, her narrow brown eyes fixed on her plate. She wore the burgundy silk dress, pearl studs at her ears, a small mole beside her mouth that Vivian had learned to read like a warning sign. Victor, Helena's brother-in-law — Marcus's older brother — slouched in the chair to Helena's right, his gray hair combed over his thinning crown, his gold ring tapping against the table in a rhythm that set Vivian's teeth on edge.

There was an empty chair. Marcus's chair. He was late, as he always seemed to be these days, buried in the paperwork of the family business that Helena and Victor kept piling on his desk.

"Sit," Helena said, and Vivian sat.

The plate in front of her held food she couldn't look at. Roast chicken. Glazed carrots. Potatoes that had been whipped into submission. Her stomach turned.

"Eat," Helena said.

Vivian lifted the fork. It weighed more than it should have. She felt every ounce of her body's failure pressing down on her — the tearing that surgery had patched but not healed, the exhaustion that had wrapped itself around her bones like wet wool, the milk that had come in heavy and painful and useless because Theo was too sleepy to feed properly and the lactation consultant couldn't come until Friday.

"Vivian." Helena's voice sharpened. "The soup is getting cold."