The evening had settled over Theodore Nott's London townhouse in that particular quiet way that only came when the city noise faded to a distant hum. His study was lit by a single desk lamp, casting long shadows across the dark wooden shelves. A half-finished glass of whiskey sat beside his laptop, untouched for the past hour while he reviewed documents he'd brought home from the office.

His phone buzzed against the leather desk pad.

He ignored it at first. Another notification. Probably a bill, or some subscription renewal. But then it buzzed again. And again.

Theo reached for it without looking away from the screen, thumb already swiping to clear the notifications. He paused.

Another purchase.

The latest notification read: "Your joint account ending in 4278 has a new transaction — £89.99 at The Little Baby Boutique."

He frowned, thumb hovering over the screen. The Little Baby Boutique. He didn't recognise the name, but the word "baby" sat strangely in his chest, like a stone dropped into still water.

The joint account. The one neither of them had bothered to close after the divorce. Five months of pretending it didn't exist. Five months of her name occasionally appearing on statements, sending an unwanted jolt through him every time.

Theo unlocked his phone and opened the banking app, navigating to their shared account. The list of recent transactions loaded slowly, and he scrolled through it with a growing sense of confusion.

Baby clothes. £54.99. A crib. £249.00. A stroller. £399.99. Bottles. £32.50. Blankets. £47.80. A baby monitor. £119.00.

His jaw tightened. His fingers moved faster, scrolling back through weeks of purchases. Maternity supplies. A changing table. More baby clothes. A nursing pillow. A breast pump.

What the fuck is this?

He set the phone down on the desk, staring at the screen as if the numbers would rearrange themselves into something sensible. His mind raced, connecting dots he didn't want to connect. The timing. The purchases. The fact that Y/N hadn't said a single word to him in five months.

She's pregnant.

The thought arrived fully formed, undeniable. He sat back in his chair, running a hand through his messy dark hair. His chest felt tight, like the air in the room had thickened.

She's pregnant. And she didn't tell me.

But the anger didn't come. Not really. Because he was already doing the maths. If she was buying a crib and maternity supplies now, she had to be... what? Four months? Five? The divorce had been finalised five months ago. She must have found out after they'd already signed the papers.

Madonna santa. The baby is mine.

Theo stared at the ceiling for a long moment, heart pounding. He and Y/N had spent two years married, and now she was carrying his child. Their child. And he'd only just found out through a bloody banking notification.

Of course she didn't tell you. You're her ex-husband. Why would she?

But the thought of her alone in her house, five months pregnant, buying a crib by herself — it did something unpleasant to his chest.

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the hardwood floor. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the door, shoved his phone into his pocket, and snatched his keys from the desk. He didn't bother with the whiskey, didn't bother turning off the lamp. His mind was already on the drive across London.

It was the first time he'd see her in five months. And he had no idea what he was going to say when she opened the door.