He rests one hand on the chair beside Lauren as though staking a claim.
Not subtle. Not apologetic. Territorial.
And Lauren smiles.
It is not a cruel smile exactly. Cruelty would require passion. It is the smile of a woman who believes the ending has already been decided and she is merely waiting for the last person in the room to catch up.
In her arms, the baby shifts.
My gaze locks on the tiny fist pressed against the blanket, the soft cheek, the almost invisible eyelashes. Something cold and electric races through my limbs.
“You brought a baby,” I hear myself say.
My own voice sounds far away, dry and thin, like it had to cross a desert to reach the table.
Lauren’s smile does not budge.
“He’s Ethan’s,” she says.
Just like that.
No ceremony. No kindness. No attempt to cushion the blow. She might as well be commenting on the weather.