He was standing in the examination room with his expensive espresso, acting as if nothing in the world could disturb his perfect, arrogant calm.
I had not slept in four days.
David didn’t know that. Then again, there were countless things he no longer knew about me. Knowing someone required attention, and my husband had stopped giving me that long before I realized exactly whose bed his attention had wandered into.
The appointment with Dr. Sutton was supposed to be simple. Quick. A solitary confirmation of the life growing inside me, a life I had discovered on a plastic stick just seventy-two hours after David packed a suitcase and walked out our front door.
But David had insisted on coming. And he didn’t come alone.
He walked into the sterile white room of the Oakwood Women’s Clinic, followed closely by a shadow drenched in expensive perfume. Peyton. The woman who had been wearing my husband’s jacket in the photo he so casually posted online. The woman he claimed was his “truth” after accusing me of the most vile betrayal imaginable.
David didn’t just bring his mistress to my ultrasound appointment. He brought a sleek, black leather folder.
“Let’s make this quick, Lauren,” David said, his voice stripped of the warmth I had loved for seven years. He tossed the folder onto the small metal tray beside my bed. The heavy thud echoed in the quiet room. “I have meetings at noon.”
I stared at the leather. “What is that?”
Peyton stepped forward, her perfectly manicured hand resting lightly on David’s arm. She smiled, a sweet, venomous curve of her lips. “It’s the final divorce decree, sweetie. And a waiver of assets.”
My breath hitched. A cold dread coiled in my gut, freezing the blood in my veins.
“You’re out of your mind,” I whispered, clutching the thin paper gown against my chest.
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