“I was in surgery this morning.”
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Damon glanced away for half a second. Nothing more. But half a second was enough.
Once, I had missed nothing in a courtroom. Before marriage, before pregnancy, before Damon persuaded everyone I was delicate, I had been the youngest corporate litigator my father’s firm had ever tried to hire and failed to manage. I understood the outline of a lie. I knew the scent of money hidden beneath concern.
My father set the orchids on the table. “Your mother left you everything you needed. Yet you keep asking.” Mother'sDay gifts
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I forced down the pain tightening my throat. My mother had left me more than wealth. She had left me voting control of the family trust when I turned thirty-two. My birthday was eleven days away. Damon knew it. Celeste knew it. My father, buried in grief and work, had forgotten the exact clause.
I lowered my gaze and brushed my daughter’s soft cheek.
Damon’s smile widened, mistaking my silence for defeat.
“You should rest,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll talk about signing those postpartum care papers.”
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“Custody support papers,” I corrected quietly.
His smile fractured.
My father did not catch it. Celeste did.
And for the first time since entering the room, she stopped pretending to weep.
Part 2
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The following morning, Damon arrived at my hospital room with a notary.
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