My hand drifted to my stomach on instinct. The faintest curve was there—barely noticeable, even to me—but I felt it. Four tiny heartbeats, still secret. Still mine.
Arthur pushed a stack of papers toward me. Divorce documents. Non-disclosure agreements. A future carefully erased.
“No drama,” he added. “No scenes. Sign, take the money, and disappear.”
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t beg.
I didn’t cry.
I picked up the pen, signed my name with steady hands, folded the check neatly, and stood.
Julian didn’t stop me. My husband—no, ex-husband—sat frozen beside his father, eyes fixed on the table as if looking at me might crack something open inside him.
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