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.

curled against her cheek. Her mouth opened in a silent dream. The room smelled of antiseptic and warm milk. My stitches burned. My hands trembled.

Julian laughed softly. “Still there, Elena?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Don’t be dramatic. Eight months is enough time to get over a divorce. Besides, you always said you wanted a family. Thought you might like continue reading …