Julian paused. He had expected tears. Begging. Maybe silence.
“Good,” he said. “Wear something modest. Don’t embarrass yourself.”
“I never do.”
His laugh sharpened. “Still pretending you have pride?”
I smiled at the sleeping child beside me. “No, Julian. I have proof.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Send the address.”
After he hung up, I lay back against the pillow, every ache in my body turning into something colder and stronger.
On the chair near my bed sat a leather folder. Inside were bank records, emails, notarized statements, and the paternity test my lawyer had ordered before I gave birth. Julian had signed away nothing. He had only abandoned me before I could tell him the truth.
And Fiona?
Fiona had made one mistake.
