Because Julian had forgotten one thing.
Before I became his quiet wife, I had been a contract auditor for one of the toughest law firms in the city.
And Julian was careless.
When he locked me out of our accounts, he left behind passwords, transfer records, shell company invoices, and emails between him and Eleanor discussing how to “starve her until she signs away custody.”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg.
I saved everything.
Now, in the delivery room, the doctor stared at my baby like he had seen a ghost.
“What is it?” I rasped.
He looked at me, tears trembling on his lashes.
“Who is the father?”
My blood went cold.
“Julian Vance,” I said.
The doctor’s hand tightened around the blanket.
Then the door opened.
And Julian walked in smiling.
“Well,” Julian said, glancing at the baby, then at me, “look at that. She survived.”
Behind him came Eleanor in pearls, heels clicking against the hospital floor. She carried no flowers, no gift, not even a lie of concern. Her eyes went straight to my son. “Is this him?” she asked.
“This is my baby,” I said.
Julian snorted. “For now.”
The doctor stepped between them and the bassinet. His name badge read Dr. Marcus Thorne. His face had changed from shock to something colder, sharper.
Eleanor noticed him and stiffened.
