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.

saw me standing in the center aisle, blocking her path to her groom.

“Elena?” Fiona’s voice lacked the smug confidence of her text messages. She looked at Julian, her eyes darting frantically. “Julian, get her out of here. Why is she here?”

“I was just admiring the venue, Fiona,” I said, turning slightly to face her. “It’s amazing what a person can afford continue reading …