She grabbed the microphone away from the DJ.
“I’m pregnant with Eric’s baby,” Natalie said.
Then she smiled.
At me.
My mother’s wine glass slipped from her hand. It shattered over the marble floor. My father gripped the table as if the entire room had shifted underneath him.
I did not move.
I did not scream.
I did not cry.
Because near the back of the room, seated at a table, was a man in a gray suit Natalie had never met.
And I had spent four months waiting for that precise moment.
I was thirty-eight years old.
I was a retired military officer, and certain habits never leave you.
The most important one is this: you never enter a battle until all your ammunition is ready.
I planned that party myself.
