“Tell me what happened.”
I told him everything—the courthouse, the insult, the new wife standing there like a trophy.
My father’s expression barely changed. He was the kind of man who handled anger the same way he handled business: silently and precisely. But his hand tightened around the plastic hospital chair until it squeaked.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “Not just for him. For me.”
“For you?” I asked.
“I should have insisted you sign a prenup,” he said. “I let you believe love would be enough protection.”
“I didn’t want Grant to look at me differently,” I whispered.
My dad nodded slowly. “He looked at you differently anyway. He looked at you like you were disposable.”
