I let Isla pull Sebastian toward the dance floor before I turned back to Trevor. He was still staring after her, the color gone from his face, the smirk long dead on his lips. “Is she mine?” he asked again, quieter now, almost pleading. Danielle stood frozen beside him, and for the first time in five years I saw real fear in the woman who had once whispered “I’m sorry” through my front door.

I could have made him suffer through an evening of not knowing. But I had made peace with this story long before Trevor walked into that reception hall, and I owed him nothing, least of all suspense. “Yes, Trevor,” I said calmly. “She’s biologically yours. Four years and three months. Which means you already did the math, and you already know exactly when I got pregnant.” His mouth opened. “But before you say another word,” I continued, “you need to understand what that word ‘yours’ actually means now.” And then I told him the truth he had signed away with his own mouth, in a Panera, five years earlier.