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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

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Nora inhaled sharply behind me.

Adrian’s face hardened. “Mother.”

I held out the envelope again.

“Read it.”

Margaret laughed under her breath. “Still trying to make yourself important. Adrian, darling, the ceremony is about to begin.”

That was when Celeste appeared at the top of the aisle.

The room turned.

She was radiant in the way knives are radiant under light.

Her gown clung to her body, white lace over satin, a small swell visible beneath the fitted bodice. One hand rested on her stomach. Her blond hair fell in glossy waves, and her smile was soft, triumphant, rehearsed.

She looked at me.

Her smile became sweeter.

“Mia,” she called. “You came. How generous.”

The room hushed completely.

Adrian stepped back, clearly relieved to have attention shift away from him. Celeste descended slowly, enjoying every eye.

When she reached us, she placed a hand on Adrian’s arm.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be strong enough.”

I looked at her hand.

Then at her face.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Her gaze flicked to the carrier. “Oh. How sweet. Are you babysitting?”

“No,” I said. “I’m mothering.”

Her smile froze.

Adrian’s fingers closed around the envelope at last.

“What game are you playing?” he muttered.

I said nothing.

He opened it.

The first page was the paternity test.

I watched his eyes move across the words.

Once.

Twice.

His face lost color so quickly it was almost beautiful.

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