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.

for us, Julian! We needed the penthouse. We needed to show them we were better than her!”

“Better than me?” I let out a low, melodic laugh that silenced the remaining noise in the room. I took a step closer to Julian, looking up into his pale, panicked face. “You called me broken, Julian. Your mother called me barren. You left me because you thought continue reading …