Adrian laughed—that sharp, condescending laugh I had once mistaken for charm. “Still so cold. That’s why it never worked between us, you know. No warmth. No real family instinct.”
I didn’t respond.
He kept going, enjoying himself. “Vanessa thinks it would be healthy for you to have closure. Come to the reception if you want. No hard feelings.”
Vanessa.
My former assistant. The woman who used to schedule my husband’s “business trips,” book our anniversary dinners, and then sneak into those same hotel suites to sleep with him. The woman who had helped him drain our joint accounts and turn our divorce into a public spectacle where I was painted as the unstable, barren wife.
I stroked my daughter’s cheek.
“I just gave birth,” I said.
The line went silent except for the distant wedding music.
“What?”
“I gave birth, Adrian. A little girl. Two hours ago.”
“Whose baby is it?” His voice cracked for the first time.
I smiled into the phone, even though he couldn’t see it. “You signed every document without reading it. You always hated the details.”
