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.

something modest. Don’t embarrass yourself.”

“I never do.”

His laugh sharpened. “Still pretending you have pride?”

I smiled at the sleeping child beside me. “No, Julian. I have proof.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Send the address.”

After he hung up, I lay back against the pillow, every ache in my body turning into something colder and stronger.

On the chair near my continue reading …