Six months after our divorce, my ex-husband showed up at my door with his fiancée and a wedding invitation in hand—but the second he saw the newborn in my arms, all the color drained from his face, and the perfect life he thought he’d built started falling apart right in front of me.

He looked at me, something almost pained moving behind his expression. “Then you should have no issue proving it.”

The cruel thing was, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

The smart thing was to agree.

The dangerous thing was to agree too fast.

So I said, “When the pediatrician says it’s safe. Not before.”

He stared. “Safe?”

“He’s premature. His immune system is weak. He is not getting dragged through a legal circus because you finally discovered consequences.”

Maya folded her arms. “And everything from this second on happens in writing.”

Ethan gave a humorless smile. “You’ve been advising her.”

“Somebody had to.”

He took out his phone. “Fine. I’ll have my lawyer contact—”

“No,” I cut in. “I’ll have mine contact yours.”

That got his attention.

The old Hannah would have flinched after saying something like that. The old Hannah would have tried to soften it, explain it, reassure him.

But the old Hannah had also once mistaken silence for peace.

I wasn’t her anymore.

He slid the phone back into his pocket. “You already have a lawyer.”

“No,” Maya said, before I could answer. “She has common sense. The lawyer comes next.”