Not the woman he diminished.
Not the woman who begged to be enough.
Me.
Julian arrived at one in the afternoon in a dark suit and froze when he saw me.
“You’re stunning,” he said.
The twins came out dressed beautifully too, and together we drove to a private airport.
The jet was Julian’s.
The children were ecstatic. I was nauseous.
By the time we landed and the black SUVs pulled up to Garrett’s venue—a sprawling estate with white flowers, crystal chandeliers, and all the wealth he once swore we could never touch—I had gone strangely calm.
We stepped out one by one.
People stared.
The whispers started instantly.
Is that Rebecca?
Who’s that with her?
Is that Julian Ashford?
Did they come on a private jet?
I stood taller.
Garrett’s wedding planner hurried over in confusion because he had only put my name on the guest list, not the twins, not any guests. Julian spoke in that quiet, effortless way powerful men do when they never need to raise their voices.
“I’m sure something can be arranged.”
It was.
Inside, even Patricia smiled when she saw me.
Then the ceremony began.
Garrett walked to the altar full of confidence—until he looked toward the back and saw me.
Saw the children.
Saw Julian.
I watched shock rip through him, followed by anger, then calculation.
Good.
