“Eight months after divorcing me because I “couldn’t give him a family,”

Inside were the results of six months of quiet investigation.

Bank transfers.

Emails.

Trust records.

Corporate filings.

Signed affidavits.

And one document Ryan could never insult away.

A court-certified DNA report.

Probability of paternity: 99.99%.

Ryan Brooks was my daughter’s father.

I touched the folder.

“Proof.”

The other end of the phone went silent.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Send me the address.”

“Mia—”

I ended the call.

For several seconds, I listened only to the hum of medical equipment.

Then a voice came from the doorway.

“That looked therapeutic.”

Naomi stood there holding two coffees.

She was forty-one, five feet ten inches tall, and somehow managed to look intimidating even in sneakers and a raincoat.

She was also the best attorney I had ever met.

More importantly, she was family.

My mother’s sister’s daughter.

Technically my cousin.

Practically my older sister.

“You heard?”

“Enough.”

She walked into the room and placed the coffees down.

“Tell me you didn’t just agree to attend that wedding.”

“I did.”

“Mia.”

“I need to go.”

“You gave birth yesterday.”

“Thirty hours ago.”

“That correction does not improve the situation.”

I almost smiled.

Naomi looked toward my daughter.

Her expression softened immediately.

“Has she eaten?”