ON THE MORNING OF THE DIVORCE, YOUR HUSBAND MARRIED HIS MISTRESS… BUT YOU WALKED AWAY EIGHT MONTHS PREGNANT, SMILING, BECAUSE YOU WERE CARRYING A SECRET THAT WAS ABOUT TO DESTROY EVERYTHING THEY THOUGHT THEY’D WON

“I nearly threw up twice.”

“That counts as composure in my profession.”

You almost laugh.

As you step into the aisle, Rebecca moves in front of you.

Up close, the perfection is thinner. Her foundation sits too heavily at the edge of her nose. Her mascara has begun to smudge. Her mouth trembles not with grief but with fury so concentrated it looks almost elegant.

“You knew,” she says.

You tilt your head. “About the money? Eventually.”

“No. About us. You knew and you let him keep planning.”

You glance past her at Damian, who is arguing in fierce whispers with his attorney. Then you look back at her. “I knew enough to wait.”

Her face twists. “You could have told me.”

You study her for a long second.

This woman sat in restaurants across from your husband while he lied about working late. She walked into an apartment partly funded with stolen money and never once asked why he needed secrecy. She stood outside a courtroom this morning and implied your pregnancy made you professionally inadequate. And now, suddenly, she wants sisterhood.

The absurdity of it nearly shines.

“You’re right,” you say mildly. “I could have. But then I would have robbed you of the exact experience you spent months building for me.”

She goes white.

You walk around her.

Outside, the rain has slowed to a fine mist. Your mother waits under the overhang, umbrella in hand, eyes searching your face before anything else. When she sees the look there, something between relief and astonishment moves through her.

“Well?” she asks.

You exhale. “He’s not as rich as he pretended. Not as smart either.”

Your mother blinks, then laughs. A quick, fierce sound. “That’s my girl.”

But the day is not finished.

By late afternoon, Damian is already calling.

You let the first three calls die. The fourth comes while you are home on your sofa with your shoes off, a heating pad behind your back, and chamomile tea cooling on the side table. Your mother is in the kitchen rattling pans louder than necessary because righteous anger has always made her domestic.

When the phone lights up again, you answer.