Eight months after the divorce, my phone buzzed with his name. “Come to my wedding,” he said, smug as ever. “She’s pregnant—unlike you.” I froze, fingers tightening around the hospital sheet.

Elena?” he hissed, his voice a low, venomous rumble meant only for my ears. “And what is that? Is this some pathetic stunt? I told you not to embarrass yourself.”

“You invited me, Julian,” I said, my voice perfectly clear, carrying just far enough for the first few rows to hear every syllable. “I’m just delivering a wedding present.”

Before he could continue reading …