“Sorry You Couldn't Give Him a Son.”

“Sorry you couldn't give him a son.””

That was the sentence Camille had written beneath the baby shower invitation, in elegant handwriting that looked almost as delicate as the woman who had spent three years pretending to be my best friend.

I read it once.

Then twice.

A third time, I noticed the tiny gold heart she'd drawn beside her signature.

Camille.

My former best friend.

My ex-husband's pregnant fiancée.

I stood in my kitchen, holding the cream-colored envelope while the coffee machine hissed behind me. Rain slid down the windows of my apartment, turning the city into a watercolor of gray buildings and blurred headlights.

The invitation smelled of expensive perfume.

Of course it did.

Camille had always believed cruelty should arrive beautifully packaged.

Come celebrate our little miracle!

Saturday, two o'clock. The Mercer Estate.

We would be so happy to have you there.

And underneath, in smaller handwriting:

Sorry you couldn't give him a son.

I placed the invitation on the counter.

Then I laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because Camille had just made the biggest mistake of her life.

Three weeks earlier, I'd received the results of a DNA test that had turned everything I believed about my marriage upside down.

Inside the bottom drawer of my desk was a thick envelope containing the certified report.

I'd read it so many times that I knew every word by heart.

*Probability of paternity: 99.99%.*

The biological father was not Roland Mercer.

It was his younger brother.

Alistair.

For six years, I'd been married to a man who made me believe I was the reason we couldn't have children.

For six years, he'd watched me swallow fertility medication, inject hormones into my stomach, and cry over pregnancy tests that showed nothing but one cruel little line.

And all that time, he'd known the truth.

My phone vibrated.

Beatrix.

My divorce attorney.

I answered.

"Please tell me you're sitting down," she said.

"I'm standing.""

"Then sit down, Evelyn.""

I pulled out a chair.

"What happened?""

"I received the additional laboratory documentation. The report has been certified. The sample history is documented, and the results are consistent with the preliminary findings.""

I looked toward the invitation.

"So there's no mistake?""

"No mistake that I can identify. Roland is not the biological father.""

"And Alistair?""

"Yes.""

I closed my eyes.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then I asked, "Did you find the original medical records?""

"Yes. And there's something else you need to understand.""

I gripped the edge of the table.

"What?""

"Roland knew about his condition before he married you.""

The room seemed to shrink.

"What condition?""

"Congenital azoospermia. His medical records show repeated testing before your wedding. There was no evidence of sperm production.""

I stared at the coffee machine.

"He told me it was my fault.""

"I know.""

"He took me to specialists. He made me pay for treatments. He told his family I was the problem.""

"I know, Evelyn.""

My throat tightened.

"Why would someone do that?""

Beatrix was quiet for a moment.

"Because the truth would have cost him something.""

I remembered a particular evening six years earlier.

We'd been sitting in our dining room. A fertility medication package lay beside Roland's dinner plate.

He'd just returned from work.

"How much is this going to cost?"" he'd asked.

"Insurance covers part of it.""

"That's not what I asked.""

I rubbed the purple bruise on my stomach where the previous injection had gone in.

"Beatrix's office said we could afford it.""

Roland laughed.

"Of course your lawyer says that. It's not her money.""

"Roland, we agreed we wanted a child.""

"We agreed we'd try. We didn't agree that my entire life would become a medical experiment.""

I looked at him.

"Do you think I enjoy this?""

He picked up his wineglass.

"I think you don't understand what it's like to be a man who can't have a family.""

Now I understood the performance.

He'd known.

He'd always known.

And he'd made me carry the shame for something that wasn't mine.

"Beatrix?""

"I'm here.""

"I want every record. The fertility records, the original diagnosis, the DNA report, and the financial audit.""

"Already requested.""

"And I want you to look at the divorce settlement again.""

"The release clause?""

"Especially the release clause.""

Beatrix exhaled.

"I advised you not to sign that agreement without an independent financial review.""

"I know.""

"You were exhausted. You wanted the marriage finished.""

"I know that too.""

Eleven months earlier, Roland had offered me a generous settlement in exchange for my resignation from several advisory positions connected to Mercer Holdings and a broad release of future claims.

I'd signed.

I'd wanted peace.

I'd wanted to stop seeing his face every morning.

But now I wondered why he'd been so desperate to make sure I walked away quietly.

"There are unusual financial transfers," Beatrix continued.

"Just over two million dollars moved through a company registered under another name during the last eighteen months of your marriage.""

"Who owns it?""

"We're tracing the beneficial ownership.""

"Does Camille have anything to do with it?""

A pause.

"We haven't established that yet.""

I looked at the invitation again.

"Find out.""

"Evelyn, listen carefully. Don't contact Roland. Don't confront Camille. Don't tell anyone what we found.""

"I wasn't planning to.""

"Good. Come to my office tomorrow morning.""

We ended the call.

I sat alone for several minutes.

Then my phone lit up.

Roland.

Camille tells me she invited you to the shower. I hope you'll be mature enough not to make the day uncomfortable. It's about the baby, Evelyn. Please don't turn it into another one of your emotional scenes.

I read it twice.

Then I typed:

Of course. I wouldn't miss it.

His reply came almost immediately.

Good. Camille has been worried you might embarrass yourself.

I smiled.

He still thought he knew me.

He still thought I was the woman who apologized when he hurt her.

A minute later, another message arrived.

This one was from Camille.

I really hope you come, Evie. I know seeing me pregnant might be difficult, but I want you to know there's no hard feelings. We're all adults now. ❤️

I placed my phone face down.

Then I opened my laptop and searched for the Mercer Estate.

The baby shower invitation included a guest dress code.

White or champagne.

I almost laughed again.

Camille wanted me dressed in white at the celebration of the child she believed would secure her future.

Fine.

I'd wear white.

But before Saturday, there was one person I needed to speak to.

Alistair Mercer.

Because the last time I'd seen him, he'd looked me straight in the eyes and called me family.

And now I knew he was about to become a father.