The memories came flooding back. Two miscarriages. Fertility appointments.
Nights spent crying alone. Barrett calling me broken. His mother calling me barren.
And Fern — his assistant turned mistress — sending flowers after the divorce with a note attached: Some women are chosen.
What none of them knew was that days before the divorce went final, I found out I was pregnant.
So I disappeared. Not to punish Barrett. To protect my baby. “Sure,” I said.
“You’ll actually come?” “Of course.” “Try not to embarrass yourself.” I looked down at my daughter’s hospital bracelet.
Baby Girl Sutter. My name. Not his. “I won’t.” Barrett chuckled. “Still pretending you’ve got something to be proud of?”
I smiled. “I have proof.” He went quiet. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Send me the address.” After we hung up, I reached for the leather folder beside my hospital bed.
Inside were bank statements, emails, and signed affidavits showing Fern had helped move money tied to the inheritance my grandmother had left me.
