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Adrian’s ex-wife.
She actually came.
Poor thing.
Brave.
Desperate.
I kept walking.
Nora followed with Lily’s carrier covered by a soft muslin blanket. Damon entered behind us, unnoticed by most, which was his particular gift.
Then I saw him.
Adrian stood near the front, one hand tucked into his jacket pocket, laughing with two men from his firm. He looked polished and pleased with himself. His dark hair had been styled back, his tuxedo tailored to perfection. He had always known how to look like a man worth trusting.
For a second, memory betrayed me.
Adrian at twenty-eight, barefoot in our first apartment, dancing with me in the kitchen.
Adrian crying when the first pregnancy test turned positive.
Adrian sitting beside me in the hospital after the first loss, holding my hand so tightly I thought grief had made us one person.
Then came the rest.
Adrian turning away from me in bed.
Adrian saying, “Maybe motherhood isn’t meant for every woman.”
Adrian signing papers without looking at my face.
Adrian leaving.
Memory closed like a fist.
He saw me.
His smile faltered, just a fraction. Then it returned, wider, sharper.
He crossed the room.
“Mia,” he said, loud enough for nearby guests to hear. “You came.”
“I said I would.”
His eyes moved over my dress. “Black? Dramatic.”
“It felt appropriate.”
“For my wedding?”
“For endings.”
His jaw tightened, then his gaze dropped toward the covered carrier in Nora’s hand.
“What’s that?”
Nora smiled without warmth. “A baby, Adrian. They’re common at weddings when people have families.”
His eyes flicked back to me.
Something passed through his face—irritation first, then suspicion, then amusement.
“You brought someone’s baby?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
“Whose?”
The quartet shifted into a softer song. Guests pretended not to listen and listened with their entire bodies.
I leaned closer.
“Mine.”
For the first time since I had known him, Adrian Vale had no immediate response.
His mouth parted.
Then he laughed.
It was not his usual controlled laugh. It was too loud.
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it?”
His eyes darkened. “Mia, don’t do this here.”
“Do what?”
“Embarrass yourself.”
There it was again.
His favorite weapon.
But this time, it landed nowhere.
I reached into my clutch and removed an envelope.
“Before your bride walks down the aisle,” I said, “you should read this.”
He stared at it as though it were dirty.
“What is it?”
“A wedding gift.”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
“You’ll want this.”
His fingers twitched, but pride held him still.
Then his mother appeared.
Margaret Vale swept toward us in silver silk, diamonds at her throat, mouth already curved in disapproval. She had never simply entered a room. She occupied it, like weather.
“Mia,” she said. “How inappropriate.”
“Margaret.”
Her eyes slid to the carrier. “You brought an infant to my son’s wedding?”
“Yes.”
“How tasteless.”
“I thought you valued children.”
Her nostrils flared. “Legitimate children.
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