Of course I did. His “new business consultant.” The woman whose perfume lingered on his shirts. The same woman who sat across from me during mediation, acting shocked while Daniel painted me as unstable, lazy, and “financially dependent.”
“She wanted me to invite you,” Daniel said. “Closure, you know? We’re mature adults.”
I almost laughed. He had drained our joint account three days before filing. Told everyone I faked a pregnancy to trap him. When I miscarried two years earlier, he said my grief was “bad for his image.”
And now he wanted me sitting in a church while he smiled for cameras.
“I just gave birth,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Silence followed.
Then his voice cracked. “What?”
“My daughter was born this morning.”
“Your… daughter?” His breathing sharpened. “Emily, whose child is that?”
I stared at the rain. “Mine.”
“Don’t play games.”
“You taught me games, Daniel. I just got better.”
Thirty minutes later, my hospital door flew open.
Daniel stood there in a tuxedo shirt, hair soaked from the storm, face pale as chalk. Vanessa lingered behind him, diamonds at her neck and anger in her eyes.
Daniel pointed at the baby. “Tell me the truth.”
A nurse stepped forward. “Sir, you can’t just barge in—”
“It’s okay,” I said quietly.
