2. Spa Day
Chapter two
Spa Day
Sutton
Three years changed a lot of things. I paced the length of the master bathroom, from the walk-in shower to the vanity. My heels slapped against the tiles.
The draft in the bathroom bit right through my leggings. The mansion was built for entertaining hundreds of industry elites, yet it usually just echoed with my own footsteps. The repetitive motion was the only thing keeping my mind from spinning out of control.
I turned on my heel and walked the same path again. My cell phone sat dead center on the counter. The screen offered no comfort, just a hidden digital clock counting down three minutes. I stared at the phone, willing the alarm to finally go off. My cycle was exactly fourteen days late.
“Just ring already,” I muttered.
I crossed my arms, rubbing my bare elbows to ward off the draft.
Hayes was at the studio, swallowed up by another mandatory rehearsal, leaving me alone in this fortress.
I spent my days managing his schedules, organizing his scripts, and making sure the estate remained perfectly kept.
I existed as a ghost haunting a beautiful, lonely house.
Every morning for the past week, I had talked myself out of taking the test, blaming the delay on stress.
Now, the test lay right next to the phone, hiding the answer facedown on the counter.
The shrill chime of the alarm shattered the quiet.
I stopped pacing. The screen flared bright white, the digital ringtone echoing in the enclosed space. Approaching the vanity, my hands shook over the sink. My fingers slipped against the plastic before I finally got ahold of it.
I flipped the stick over. I brought the test closer to the vanity lights. Two solid pink lines glared back at me from the tiny oval window.
I looked at the result. The crushing emptiness of the estate evaporated in a single second. The chill of the bathroom faded into the background.
I raised my free hand and pressed it tightly over my mouth. A raw sob tore through the quiet. Tears blurred the bulbs above the mirror.
I stepped backward, my back hitting the edge of the bathtub. My legs gave out. I slid down the porcelain, my shirt catching against the tub, until I sank onto the bathmat. I pulled my knees up, gripping the test.
We had spent the last two years waiting for the chaos of his career to settle.
We traded our cramped apartment for this empty house, and we traded our time together for studio demands.
But this changed everything. Hayes had promised me this future before the franchise consumed him whole.
We had whispered about it in our old bedroom, back when his name was just a dream on a casting sheet.
“Once we survive the madness of this first movie, Sutton, I want a real life with you,” Hayes had told me. “I want a house full of kids, something just for us that the cameras can’t touch.”
I rested my hand gently against my stomach. He wanted an anchor outside of his chaotic career. I had the physical proof right here in my hand. He was leaving for Europe soon, but this secret would ground us.
It’s actually real. After all the stress and the waiting, we are finally going to be a family.
I wiped the tears from my cheeks. Pushing off the bathmat, I stood up. I looked at the test before placing it inside the vanity. I slid the drawer shut, hiding the evidence. I needed to focus on something practical before the shock fully wore off.
“Just one week,” I whispered.
I left the bathroom, stepping out into the master bedroom.
My bare feet sank into the carpet as I approached the desk sitting near the bay window.
I picked up my phone and retrieved my planner from the top drawer.
I sat on the edge of the desk, leaning my weight against it. I dialed the LA Women’s Clinic.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Gallagher,” the receptionist chirped. “Dr. Evans can schedule a full blood panel to officially confirm the pregnancy, and since you are over two weeks late, we can also perform an early dating ultrasound.”
“That sounds perfect,” I replied, grabbing a pen from the cup on the desk. “Do you have any openings for next Wednesday morning? And please ensure the appointment is kept off the public calendar for privacy reasons.”
I clicked the pen while I waited. Next Thursday was our third anniversary. The timing aligned. If I could get the bloodwork and the sonogram from the doctor, I could hand the results to Hayes the next night during our private dinner.
“We are discreet here, ma’am,” the receptionist assured me. “We have a cancellation next Wednesday at ten in the morning, but we require you to drink at least two glasses of water before you arrive for the sonogram.”
“I will make sure I follow the instructions,” I said, clamping the phone between my shoulder and my ear. “Thank you so much for getting me onto the schedule.”
I opened the planner to next week. Eleanor’s PR assistants monitored our shared digital calendar, flagging anything that might interfere with Hayes’s press obligations.
I refused to let his mother intercept this news.
I leaned over the planner and wrote “Spa Day” across the Wednesday morning block.
The pen scratched against the page, making the lie official.
Keeping the secret for a week would be torture, but the reveal would be flawless. Hayes was scheduled to leave for a grueling four-month European press tour the day after our anniversary. The house would be empty while he was gone. But he would take the knowledge of our growing family with him.
I stared at the fake entry, letting myself imagine his reaction next week.
I left the master suite and followed the long, echoing hallway. My feet padded against the cold stairs as I made my way down to the expansive kitchen. Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching the dust motes hovering over the white cabinets.
I rubbed my thumb hard over my knuckles as I crossed the room, the reality of the two pink lines refusing to fade. I needed to move. I had to burn off the restless energy before I lost my mind waiting for the clinic appointment next week. I opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors.
Three cardboard boxes sat waiting on the island.
The studio had sent over the revised pages for the next Meridian installment.
This was the final film in his current contract.
The franchise had consumed our lives for the past three years, dictating our sleep schedules, our diets, and our privacy.
I stepped closer to the island and gripped the scissors.
“Just through the seam,” I whispered, digging the blade into the tape.
The tape split with a sharp rip in the empty kitchen. I pushed the cardboard flaps open, exposing the contents.
Inside, hundreds of script pages sat stacked. I dropped the scissors onto the counter and reached into the box. I pulled out the first stack of paper, adjusting as the weight shifted in my grip.
I dropped the stack onto the island with a solid thud.
I planted both hands firmly against the top page.
The paper helped steady my shaking hands.
I focused on the physical labor, falling into the methodical rhythm of unpacking the studio’s demands.
Every single page represented another exhausting hour Hayes would spend on set.
Maria stepped through the archway, her arms full of freshly pressed dry cleaning. The plastic crinkled with every step she took. The scent of warm starch drifted into the air, cutting through the smell of the cardboard.
I turned away from the counter and reached out to take the bulky bundle from her. The wire hangers dug into my palms.
“I brought the dry cleaning in from the service gate, Mrs. Gallagher,” Maria said. “Do you need his suit separated for his meetings tomorrow?”
“Yes, please leave it out,” I replied, shifting the awkward pile of clothes. “Hang it on the back of the bedroom door so it doesn’t get wrinkled in the closet. He has a full day of studio readings tomorrow, and I want everything prepped.”
I functioned more like a house manager than a typical wife, absorbing these unglamorous logistics without complaint.
Eleanor handled the ruthless studio executives.
I handled the quiet, practical details that actually kept his daily routine functioning.
Shielding him from this burden allowed Hayes to step onto a soundstage focused on his art.
Maria nodded, taking the clothes back from my arms. I gladly let them go.
“I will hang them up right now,” Maria offered. “Should I go ahead and prepare the dining room for the two of you tonight?”
“That would be wonderful, Maria,” I said, stepping back to let her pass. “Just set the table. We’ll handle the dinner ourselves when he finally gets home from the studio.”
She turned and headed toward the hallway. The garment bags swished against her apron until she disappeared around the corner. I watched her go, resting my hand against my stomach. I was content to manage the quiet details of his life while I waited for him to finally come home.
The landline began to ring. The sharp trill startled me, cutting through the quiet morning.
I rubbed my palms against my leggings. I crossed the kitchen, eager to hear his voice, and answered the phone.
Instead of my husband’s, Eleanor’s sharp voice flooded the earpiece.
“Sutton, cancel whatever dinner plans you had tonight,” Eleanor ordered. “The studio just locked Hayes into a mandatory stunt rehearsal for the final sequence, and he won’t be out of there until midnight.”
I looked at the counter. I had spent the entire morning visualizing a quiet, intimate dinner, imagining him sitting across from me while I guarded my new secret.
Now, the sprawling dining room would remain empty.
I swallowed the frustration, burying it beneath years of conditioned Hollywood-wife reflexes. This was how the machine operated.
I reached out and wound the coiled phone cord around my index finger. I let the pinch of the wire distract me just enough to keep from snapping at her.
“I understand, Eleanor,” I said, leaning my hip against the counter. “I will leave a plate in the refrigerator for him so he can eat when he finally gets back.”
“Don’t wait up for him, because he needs to get straight to bed when he arrives,” Eleanor continued. “The executives are thrilled with his dedication today, and we cannot afford to break his focus right before the tour.”
She wasn’t asking for my cooperation; she was enforcing a schedule.
The studio demanded his time, and his mother acted as the gatekeeper.
I slipped the cord off my finger, letting the tight coil spring back into place.
Arguing with her would only cause friction, and I refused to add unnecessary stress to his workload.
“I won’t keep him up,” I replied, my voice steady. “Tell him I love him, and I’ll see him in the morning.”
She hung up without saying goodbye. The line went dead, buzzing with a dial tone. I pulled the receiver away from my ear and hung up.
The silence of the kitchen rushed back in, leaving me alone in the expansive room.
Disappointment still lingered, but knowing what I carried made the empty house feel less lonely.
It made me miss him more, though the wait would be worth it.
I let the secret anchor me as I looked forward to our anniversary next week.