The tension in the ballroom was thick enough to cut with a knife. My new wife, Clara, stood tall in her pristine white gown, her hand gripping my arm with a force that belied her calm demeanor. Her question hung in the air, echoing over the soft, ambient wedding music that now felt entirely out of place.
“Whose child are you carrying?”
Van stopped dead in her tracks. Her back was turned to us, the soft fabric of her maternity dress draped over a bump that looked(simo) to be about five or six months along. For three agonizing years of marriage, she had begged me to build a family with her. For three years, I had frozen her out, convinced that withholding my affection was my only defense against a marriage built on obligation. And now, barely a year after our divorce, she was standing in front of my entire social circle, carrying a life I had denied her.
Slowly, Van turned around. There was no sadness in her eyes anymore—only a cold, piercing clarity that made my stomach drop. She looked at Clara, then shifted her gaze to me, a faint, bitter smile touching her lips.
“You really want to know, Clara?” Van’s voice was remarkably steady, carrying across the silent room. “Are you sure your new husband wants you to know the answer to that question?”
“Van, stop it,” I hissed, stepping forward, trying to shield Clara from whatever venom she was about to spew. “This is our wedding day. You weren’t even invited. If you came here just to cause a scene and humiliate me, you’ve had your moment. Now leave.”
“Humiliate you, Ethan?” Van let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I don’t need to humiliate you. You did that to yourself the moment you decided to build your life on a foundation of lies. I came here today to close a chapter. I came to look the man who drained my youth and my family’s money in the eye and show him that I survived. But since your beautiful new bride is so curious about my pregnancy… I think it’s only fair she gets the truth.”
Clara tightened her grip on my arm, her eyes narrowing. “Ethan, what is she talking about? If she’s carrying your child, so help me—”
“She can’t be!” I interrupted fiercely, panic finally breaking through my stoic facade. “Clara, look at her. She’s at least twenty weeks pregnant. We’ve been divorced for over a year, and I haven’t touched her in centuries. It’s biologically impossible. She’s just trying to tear us apart.”
