Ethan finally moved from the altar, one slow step at a time, as if the ground beneath him had become unstable. He stopped several feet away from us, his eyes locked on Caleb’s face, and I saw the exact moment recognition became terror.
“How old are they?” he asked.
I met his stare without blinking.
“Four.”
The word landed harder than any accusation.
A murmur rolled through the garden, sharp and immediate, because everyone there knew the timeline of our divorce. Everyone remembered the polished family statement claiming that Ethan and I had separated peacefully due to “different visions for the future,” and everyone had heard Eleanor whisper that I had left because I could not handle the pressure of their world.
Ethan swallowed.
“Grace,” he said, his voice barely holding together. “Are they mine?”
Liam turned toward me. “Mama, why is he asking that?”
I placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
