“…Whose baby is it?”
Once upon a time, that question would have destroyed me. Back then, I was the Emma who cried in court while he painted me as unstable, bitter, and impossible to love. The woman he convinced the judge didn’t deserve the penthouse, the stock shares, or even basic dignity.
But that version of me had died with the divorce decree.
I adjusted the pale pink blanket around my daughter.
“You should get back to your fiancée, Adrian.”
“Emma…” His voice dropped lower, strained now. “Tell me that child isn’t mine.”
I turned toward the rain-covered skyline outside the window. New York looked gray, wet, and strangely beautiful.
“You signed everything without reading it, Adrian. You always hated details.”
Thirty minutes later, the door to my hospital room burst open.
Adrian stormed inside still wearing his tuxedo, pale-faced and sweating, his loosened bow tie hanging around his collar. Right behind him came Vanessa in a white wedding gown, her cathedral veil trailing across the hospital floor, diamonds trembling at her throat.
Adrian stared at the baby.
Then at me.
“You planned this,” he whispered.
