The smell of barbecue smoke and coconut sunscreen filled the backyard while friends laughed and music played.

Everyone seemed carefree except me. One hand rested over my six-month belly, a reflex I couldn’t control.

Every time the football hit the grass near me, my pulse jumped.

“Lighten up, Laura! It’s just a game,” Tyler called out with a grin, tossing the ball to his friends.

“I’m fine watching,” I replied.

He rolled his eyes and threw the ball again—landing just a few inches from where I stood. A couple of friends shifted uncomfortably.

“She’s just extra emotional these days. Pregnancy hormones,” Tyler joked loudly, causing a few awkward laughs.

The fake charm in his voice made me tense. He loved playing the entertaining host, no matter who it embarrassed—especially me.

The next throw was harder—it skimmed my leg. “Oops! Sorry, babe,” he said, but his eyes were bright with something cold.

Our golden retriever, Baxter, picked up the football in his mouth, tail wagging. As Tyler reached for it, he leaned down and muttered, “Let’s make this one count.”

A chill cut through me. I went inside, heart racing. These “accidents” had been increasing—doors almost hitting me, elbows grazing too close.

What Tyler didn’t know was I had put a voice recorder in Baxter’s harness.

That night, in the bathroom, I listened to the recording. His voice was clear: “Let’s make this one count.” Then his quiet, sinister laugh.

The next morning at brunch with our friends, I pressed play. The room fell silent.

Tyler went pale. The easy laughter he relied on vanished. People finally saw what I had been living with.