Standing beside him was Vanessa Clarke—his coworker. The same woman he once told me not to worry about.
Her hand rested comfortably on his arm, like it had always belonged there.
Evan glanced at my stomach—and frowned.
Not with concern.
With disgust.
“I couldn’t stay with someone who looks like that,” he said flatly. “It’s depressing. I want my life back.”
A few people nearby turned to stare.
Vanessa let out a soft, amused laugh.
“He really tried,” she added sweetly. “But men have needs.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“You’re divorcing me days before I give birth,” I said quietly.
Evan shrugged. “You’ll be fine. My lawyer will handle support. I’m not your responsibility.”
Then he slid another document toward me.
A marriage application.
“You’re marrying her?” I asked.
“Next week,” he said, smiling.
The baby shifted inside me again, heavy and restless.
“You know how this looks,” I said.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“You were a mistake,” he whispered coldly. “And honestly… you never brought anything to the table.”
That hurt more than if he had shouted.
Because he meant it.
He truly believed I had nothing.
That I was nothing.
What Evan didn’t know was this: