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.

She had used the company account to help steal my inheritance.

My phone buzzed with the wedding address.

I kissed my daughter’s forehead.

“Your father invited us,” I murmured. “Let’s not be rude.”…

Part 2

The church was an architectural monument to old money and carefully curated pretense. White orchids draped from every mahogany pew, their scent heavy and sweet, suffocating the crisp autumn air. I stood in the stone vestibule, looking through the frosted glass doors at the gathering crowd. It was the exact same circle of high-society vultures who had smiled at me across dinner tables for seven years, the same people who had whispered behind my back the moment my second miscarriage became public knowledge.