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. The room still smelled of antiseptic, my body still aching from the birth he didn’t even know happened. I stared at the sleeping baby beside me and let out a slow laugh. “Sure,” I whispered. “I’ll be there.” He has no idea what I’m bringing. And when he sees it… everything will change.
The invitation came while I was still b:leeding into a hospital pad. My ex-husband’s name flashed on my phone like a curse I had survived.
“Come to my wedding,” Adrian said the moment I answered. His voice was smooth, proud, cruel. “You should see what a real woman looks like. Celeste is pregnant—unlike you.”
For three seconds, I couldn’t breathe.
Beside me, my daughter slept in a clear plastic bassinet, one tiny fist curled against her cheek. Her mouth opened in a silent dream. The room smelled of antiseptic and warm milk. My stitches burned. My hands trembled.
Adrian laughed softly. “Still there, Mia?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
