"I'm in the maternity ward, Julian."

She said it the same way she had once signed off on his board presentations.

Calm.

Final.

Unshakeable.

The cathedral noise on his end dropped to nothing.

"That's not possible," he said.

His voice had lost its shine.

"You can't be—"

"Three hours ago," Elena said.

"He has your jaw.

I thought you should know."

A long silence.

Then, muffled, she heard Chloe's voice in the background.

Sharp.

Urgent.

Asking why he had gone pale.

Julian covered the phone but not well enough.

"It's nothing," he told her.

"Give me a minute."

"Julian." Chloe's voice sharpened.

"The doors open in thirty minutes.

Whatever that is, it can wait."

He came back on the line.

"Elena, listen to me very carefully—"

"No," Elena said quietly.

"I don't think I will."

She looked down at her son.

His tiny chest rose and fell without a care in the world.

"You told the mediators I was infertile," she said.

"You said it under oath."

Julian said nothing.

"I have the transcript," she added.

"And I have him."

Somewhere on his end, a door opened.

A man's voice — older, authoritative — said Julian's name like a warning.

Elena recognized it immediately.

It was Richard Sterling.

Julian's father.

And he did not sound like a man arriving to celebrate a wedding.