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.

stained-glass windows. Behind me, the wedding was in complete ruins. Julian was shouting at Fiona, Eleanor was hysterical in the front row, and the priest was quietly closing his Bible.

Marcus walked beside me, opening the heavy front doors to the crisp, bright afternoon. A black SUV was waiting for us at the curb.

“What’s the next step, Marcus?” I asked continue reading …