“Good,” he said. “Wear 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 bed sat a leather folder. Inside were bank records, emails, notarized statements, and the paternity test my lawyer had ordered before I gave birth. Julian had signed away nothing. He had only abandoned me before I could tell him the truth.
And Fiona?
Fiona had made one mistake.
She had used the company account to help steal my inheritance.
My phone buzzed with the wedding address.
I kissed my daughter’s forehead.
“Your father invited us,” I murmured. “Let’s not be rude.”…
Part 2
The church was an architectural monument to old money and carefully curated pretense. White orchids draped from every mahogany pew, their scent heavy and sweet, suffocating the crisp autumn air. I stood in the stone vestibule, looking through the frosted glass doors at the gathering crowd. It was the exact same circle of high-society vultures who had smiled at me across dinner tables for seven years, the same people who had whispered behind my back the moment my second miscarriage became public knowledge.
