When I miscarried, my husband had to wait for his partner to fish. I didn't love him and regretted it.

I was a world-renowned professional angler. After marrying Grant Sterling, the eldest son of the Sterling family, I helped him close dozens of deals by using our shared passion for fishing to build connections, doubling the company’s profits.

The day after I found out I was pregnant, I suffered an accidental miscarriage in the middle of the vast ocean.

His childhood friend, Summer Hayes, hooked the bit of tissue that had slipped from my body, then gave me a sly, taunting wink:

“Quick, cast a line while it’s fresh! I bet the fish out here have never tasted bait like this before! You’re not angry, are you, Harper?”

I looked at Grant Sterling, pleading for help, but he just chastised me:

“You’re just on your period, right? You can single-handedly lift those heavy water coolers, why are you acting so delicate? Next time, remember to bring tampons! You’ve made a mess of my boat!”

I begged him to turn back, but a fish bit his line, and he told me to wait.

Only after he reeled in the fish did Grant have time for me. “Didn’t you say you had something to tell me today?”

The air was silent.

“Nonsense. Say it or don’t.” Grant said impatiently.

I closed my eyes. Suddenly, I felt like I was the one who was wrong.