Math not on my side.

I wake to the sound of retching coming from the bathroom. Disoriented, I blink at the unfamiliar hotel ceiling before remembering—we're married. Yesterday was our wedding.

"Sarah?" I call, pushing myself up on my elbows.

The only response is another violent heave. I throw back the covers and hurry to the bathroom door, finding it unlocked. Sarah kneels on the cold tile floor, her naked body hunched over the toilet bowl, her knuckles white where she grips the porcelain.

"Hey," I say softly, kneeling beside her and gathering her hair back from her face. "Too much champagne last night?"

She shakes her head weakly before another wave of nausea hits her. When it passes, she sits back on her heels, her face pale and clammy.

"I don't think it's the champagne," she whispers, her hand moving unconsciously to rest on her stomach.

The implication hits me like a freight train. Morning sickness. My wife is experiencing morning sickness.

"Are you..." I can't even finish the question.

Sarah nods slowly, a mixture of wonder and uncertainty in her eyes. "I think I might be. My period is late, and now this..." She gestures weakly at the toilet.

The bathroom floor seems to tilt beneath me as a sickening realization crashes through my mind. Numbers flash like a grotesque calculator—weekends with Wiley, nights with me. My stomach lurches as I mentally count the frequency of their encounters versus ours.

"Liam?" Sarah's voice sounds distant, underwater. "Are you okay? You look pale."

I can't speak. The horrible math continues in my head—Sarah spent almost every weekend with Wiley for the past six weeks, sometimes Friday through Sunday. Three days a week. Meanwhile, I've only had her Sundays through Thursdays, with many of those nights spent planning the wedding, too exhausted to touch each other.

OH FUCK! That pervert has had her more than I have. My vision narrows, black spots dancing at the edges. If she's truly pregnant, statistics aren't on my side. The horrible truth hammers through my skull—there's more than a fifty percent chance that the child growing inside my wife is Wiley's.