The morning of our divorce, my husband walked in with his mistress on his arm—both dressed like they’d already claimed the life they thought they stole from me.

Not here at the courthouse. Not on the day he filed. Not when he coldly proposed “a respectful separation.” It ended there, through your windshield, while your unborn son kicked against your ribs and your husband kissed another woman like he had never known the weight of vows.

A knock taps against the passenger-side window.

You open your eyes.

Damian stands outside in a charcoal suit that fits him too well and a smile that fits him worse. Beside him, Rebecca glows in a burgundy sheath dress and heels sharp enough to puncture tile. She keeps one manicured hand looped through his arm as if she already owns everything she touches.

You lower the window just a few inches.

“We should head in,” Damian says. His tone is smooth, almost courteous, and somehow that makes it uglier. “The judge doesn’t like people being late.”

You give him a tiny nod. “Wouldn’t want to inconvenience the court on your big day.”

Rebecca laughs softly, the sound sugar-coated and pointed. “Cristina, I do hope we can keep things civilized. This is painful, yes, but in the long run it’s for the best. Damian needs a partner who understands the world he moves in.”