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 watching me finally have one.”
A nurse passed the doorway. The machines hummed. My baby sighed.
Julian had left me after seven years, after two miscarriages, after the doctor told us my body needed time. He called me broken. His mother called me barren. Fiona, his assistant, had sent me a bouquet after the divorce with a card that read, “Some women are chosen.”
They thought I had disappeared because I was ashamed.
They didn’t know I had disappeared because I was protecting something.
I looked at my daughter’s hospital bracelet.
Baby Girl Vance.
My last name.
Not his.
“Sure,” I said, my voice steady now. “I’ll be there.”
Julian paused. He had expected tears. Begging. Maybe silence.
