Emily let out a thin laugh. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“No,” I said. “I’m giving you an opportunity.”
Her jaw tightened. “Nathan, not here.”
I folded my napkin with care and set it beside my plate. “We haven’t slept together in eleven weeks.” I let the number settle into the room. “Not since the hotel in Denver, before your ‘girls’ trip’ to Miami. I remember because after that, I moved into the guest room, and two weeks later I had my vasectomy follow-up. The doctor confirmed it worked months ago.”
My mother inhaled sharply.
Emily’s eyes flicked around the table, searching for help. No one moved.
“You told me you were stressed,” I continued. “Too tired. Overwhelmed with work. You told everyone we were trying to reconnect.” I paused. “So I’ll ask again. Who’s the father?”
“That’s enough,” Emily snapped, but panic had already cracked through her voice.
Mark swore quietly. Chloe covered her mouth.
I reached into my jacket and placed a printed photo beside her plate. Not tossed. Not slammed. Set down. A timestamped image from two Fridays ago: Emily outside the Fairfield Inn near Baltimore, kissing Daniel Mercer, her regional manager.
Emily stared at it as if it might vanish.
