curve of her stomach. I picked up the pen, signed every page without shedding a tear, and watched them mistake my silence for surrender.
Three months earlier, I had still believed Daniel Mercer was my husband.
Now he stood across the dining table in the mansion my grandfather had left me, looking at me like an employee he had finally decided to fire.
Beside him, my younger sister Vanessa smiled.
Pregnant.
By my husband.
“You’re taking this surprisingly well,” she said.
Daniel laughed. “Claire knows when she’s lost.”
His mother,
