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

They had used my grief as infrastructure.

Every appointment.

Every psychological questionnaire.

Every prescription.

Every moment when Ryan encouraged me to let him manage the finances because I was “too overwhelmed.”

All of it had been useful to them.

My phone vibrated.

Ryan.

A message.

Hope you didn’t chicken out. Ceremony starts in 30.

I stared at it.

Then I laughed.

Dr. Sloane looked frightened.

Naomi looked at me.

“What?”

I showed her the screen.

For the first time all day, Naomi smiled.

“Are you ready?”

I looked at Dr. Sloane.

“No.”

Then I closed the folder.

“But I’m done being unready.”

Ryan saw me fifteen minutes before the ceremony.

He was standing near the grand staircase surrounded by photographers and groomsmen.

His tuxedo was black.

His hair was perfectly styled.

He looked exactly as he had on our wedding day.

That hurt more than I expected.

Not because I wanted him.

Because once, that face had meant safety.

He noticed me.

His expression changed from surprise to delight.

There it was.

The reason he had invited me.

He wanted this.

He wanted to see me standing alone at his wedding while another woman carried his child.

He excused himself from his friends and walked toward me.

“Mia.”

“Ryan.”

He looked me up and down.

“You actually came.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Not at all.”

His eyes drifted to the leather folder.

“What’s that?”

“A wedding gift.”

He laughed.

“You always did have a dramatic streak.”

“And you always mistook warnings for drama.”

His smile tightened.

“You look tired.”

“I had a busy night.”

“I heard you moved.”

“I did.”