Tegan, nearly eight months pregnant and struggling with sciatica, sits in her car outside her Lewiston, Maine apartment after a late grocery-store shift. The parking area is unlit and bitterly cold. She braces herself for the fifty-foot walk, juggling discounted groceries and her house keys while coping with pain and fatigue.

She spots a tall figure lingering by the entrance and, fearing danger, readies her pepper spray. Determined not to abandon her groceries, Tegan heads straight for the door, hyperaware of the man watching her approach.

When the man speaks her name, Tegan recognizes Jackson Bruckner. He takes the groceries, explains he texted and ordered Chinese food, and plans to fetch the delivery. Tegan notes he’s an attorney and not the baby’s father or her boyfriend, but someone dependable who has been visiting more often.

Jackson holds the door as they go upstairs. Though she enjoys his company, Tegan frames the visit as business. She ends with a pointed hint: soon she expects to be rich beyond her dreams—and it will be because of the baby she is carrying.