And there stood Adrian Vale, my husband of five years, smiling like he had just won a war.
Beside him, Celeste Monroe tilted her head. “Oh,” she said softly. “She looks worse than you said.”
Adrian laughed.
The sound cut deeper than the stitches.
I stared at him, waiting for shame to appear. None did. He wore a navy suit, fresh cologne, and the cold expression of a man who had practiced cruelty in the mirror.
He dropped a folder onto my hospital blanket.
“Sign the divorce,” he said.
My fingers curled around the edge of the sheet. “Here?”
“Where else?” His eyes swept over me with disgust. “You’re too ugly now, Evelyn. You should be grateful I’m making this clean.”
Celeste stepped closer, her perfume choking the room. “Adrian wants a fresh start. A public one.”
One of my babies whimpered. I reached for him, but pain flashed through my abdomen. Adrian did not move.
“You planned this,” I whispered.
“No,” he said. “I upgraded.”
Celeste smiled and lifted the Birkin slightly. “He has excellent taste.”
The nurse at the door froze, horrified. Adrian noticed and turned charming. “Family matter.”
