David collapsed into the small visitor’s chair as if the bones had been removed from his legs. “No,” he whispered, his eyes wide with horror. “No, no, no.”
Peyton stared at the screen, her face draining of all color. The trap she had so meticulously set—convincing David to get the vasectomy, feeding his paranoia, pushing him to leave—had just spectacularly backfired.
I slowly sat up on the examination table. I ignored David. I looked directly at Peyton, who was trembling by the door.
“You can pick up your pen now, Peyton,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I won’t be needing it.”
I reached for the leather folder containing the divorce papers and shoved it off the metal tray. It hit the floor next to her designer shoes.
“Lauren,” David gasped, reaching a shaking hand toward me. “Lauren, I didn’t know—”
“Don’t touch me,” I snapped, the authority in my voice surprising even myself. I looked at Dr. Sutton. “Can I have copies of those ultrasound photos, Doctor? I believe my attorney is going to need them immediately.”
Dr. Sutton printed the images, tearing the glossy paper from the machine and handing them to me like a shield.
I walked out of the room, my hospital gown rustling, leaving them drowning in the silence of two tiny, echoing heartbeats. As the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind me, I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed.
Evelyn Reed answered on the second ring.
“Evelyn,” I said, stepping into the bright light of the hallway. “Freeze everything. I have the proof.”
“Good,” my lawyer replied, her voice practically purring with predatory delight. “Because Peyton just played her final card. And Lauren? You’re not going to believe what she just announced to the world.”
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