Not crying babies. Not congratulations. Not even the soft, stunned relief I’d imagined I would feel after carrying twins through thirty-seven exhausting weeks.
Just laughter.
It was low, smug, and cruel in a way that made my skin go cold before I even opened my eyes.
I was still weak from the delivery, my body heavy and aching, my mind floating in that blurry space between medication and pain. The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and warmed blankets. Somewhere to my left, one of my daughters made a tiny squeaking sound. The other was asleep in the bassinet near the window, wrapped tightly in a pink-and-blue striped hospital swaddle.
I turned my head slowly.
Ethan stood at the foot of my bed in a charcoal coat, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a manila envelope. His tie was loosened, his expensive watch glinting in the afternoon light. He looked exactly the way he did in every room he entered—controlled, polished, pleased with himself.
Beside him stood his mother, Diane, lips pursed in the usual expression she wore whenever she looked at me, as if I were something sticky on the bottom of her shoe. His father, Richard, stood next to the coffee station, arms folded. And leaning against the wall like she belonged there was Vanessa Cole.
