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

At 2:10, I changed clothes.

Naomi had brought me a black dress.

Simple.

Long-sleeved.

Loose enough that nothing pulled painfully against my body.

I stood in front of the mirror.

I barely recognized myself.

Pregnancy had changed my face.

Motherhood had changed my eyes.

There were shadows beneath them, but I no longer looked fragile.

I looked tired.

And certain.

Naomi entered carrying the leather folder.

“Security is downstairs.”

“Ours?”

“And theirs.”

“Police?”

“Not yet.”

“Federal investigators?”

She gave me a look.

“I said not yet.”

I took the folder.

“What about Sloane?”

“She’s in the bridal lounge.”

“Good.”

“You’re seriously doing this.”

“Yes.”

Naomi stepped closer.