And then Michael arrived.

He wasn’t alone.

A woman walked at his side—a woman in a striking red dress that clung to her curves, her hand resting gently on the swell of her pregnant belly. Her beauty was undeniable, but what stunned me most wasn’t her presence. It was Michael’s hand, resting proudly, almost possessively, on her stomach as if he were introducing his greatest achievement.

My body went cold.

The table fell silent. Forks froze midair. My father nearly choked on his wine. Everyone recognized what was happening, even if no one spoke it aloud.

Michael, always confident, always composed, broke the silence with a voice smooth as silk.