Page 4 — The Toast That Turned Into A Public Trial
Philippe approached their table with the check.
Adrien reached for his wallet like a man in control.
Then Philippe spoke.
Adrien froze.
Philippe gestured across the dining room.
Adrien turned, scanning — confused — until his eyes hit me.
I stepped slightly out from behind the orchids.
And raised my glass of water in a polite little toast.
His face drained white.
It was instant.
The expression of a man who knows the story just changed genres.
Nearby tables went silent.
Phones started to lift.
Then a woman stood up — the type that lives for social combustion.
Cordelia Westbrook, San Francisco’s favorite rumor engine.
“Adrien Foster!” she called out. Loud enough for the entire room.
Every head turned.
Adrien tried to speak. No sound came out cleanly.
Sabrina’s smile vanished as she followed the crowd’s gaze… straight to my belly.
Her eyes widened.
“You’re pregnant,” she whispered.
“Seven months,” I said. “But I’m sure you already knew that. Right?”
She turned to Adrien in horror.
“You told me you were separated.”
Adrien sat there like a man watching his own résumé burn.
Read what I wrote on the receipt — and why it ended his career in minutes ⬇️⬇️⬇️
