“It’s depressing,” he added. “I need my life back.”
The baby kicked sharply inside me, as if reacting to the cruelty in his voice.
Tessa let out a soft laugh. “Grant really tried,” she said sweetly. “But men have needs.”
My throat tightened. “You’re divorcing me when I’m about to give birth,” I whispered.
Grant shrugged. “You’ll survive. My lawyer will arrange child support. I’m not your caretaker.”
Then he slid another document across the bench. Glossy. Official. A marriage application receipt.
“You’re marrying her?” I asked.
Grant smiled smugly. “Next week.”
The baby shifted again, heavy and restless.
“You realize how this looks,” I said.
Grant leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper only I could hear.
“You were a mistake,” he said coldly. “And honestly? You never brought anything to the table.”
He believed it. He believed I had nothing. He believed I was nothing.
What Grant didn’t know was that my quiet father—the man who hated attention and lived in a modest house outside Dayton—owned a manufacturing company worth more than forty million dollars.
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