The same coworker he once told me not to worry about.
The same woman whose “holiday party invitation” I skipped because Grant insisted I was “too tired to attend.”
Grant glanced at my stomach and grimaced.
Not concern.
Not guilt.
Disgust.
“I couldn’t stay with a woman with a big belly like you,” he said flatly.
The words carried farther than he probably intended.
Several people nearby turned to look.
“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 said quietly.
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.
Marriage application receipt.
I stared at it.
“You’re marrying her?”
Grant smiled smugly.
“Next week.”
The baby shifted again, heavy and restless.
