She looked less like a bride and more like a woman who had just discovered the floor beneath her was not real.
I adjusted the blanket around my daughter.
“No,” I said. “You need something signed.”
His face twitched.
That was how I knew I was right.
Six months earlier, Dominic Vale had stood in our penthouse kitchen and told me our marriage had become “bad for his image.”
He didn’t say he was leaving because he had fallen in love.
He didn’t say he had been sleeping with Celeste, the daughter of the investor who could save his failing luxury hotel project.
He didn’t say he had already promised her father a clean, scandal-free merger.
He simply placed a folder on the marble island and said, “This will be easier if you don’t fight.”
I was eight weeks pregnant.
Dominic didn’t know.
Not because I hid it from him.
