“Julian Vance,” I said.
The doctor’s hand tightened around the blanket.
Then the door opened.
And Julian walked in smiling.
“Well,” Julian said, glancing at the baby, then at me, “look at that. She survived.”
Behind him came Eleanor in pearls, heels clicking against the hospital floor. She carried no flowers, no gift, not even a lie of concern. Her eyes went straight to my son. “Is this him?” she asked.
“This is my baby,” I said.
Julian snorted. “For now.”
The doctor stepped between them and the bassinet. His name badge read Dr. Marcus Thorne. His face had changed from shock to something colder, sharper.
Eleanor noticed him and stiffened.
“Marcus?” she said.
The room fell silent.
Julian’s smile disappeared. “What are you doing here?”
Dr. Thorne stared at him. “Delivering a child you abandoned.”
Something passed between them, something old and poisonous. Eleanor recovered first.
“This is a private family matter,” she said. “You may leave.”
“I’m the attending physician,” he replied. “I won’t be leaving.”
Julian turned to me. “Listen carefully, Vivian. You’re broke. Exhausted. Alone. Sign temporary custody to me today, and I’ll cover the hospital bill.”
I looked at my newborn, his tiny fingers curled like he was holding onto life itself.
“No.”
Eleanor stepped closer. “Don’t be stupid. We can give him a future. What can you give him? A motel room and pity?”
I smiled faintly.
That was my first mistake in their eyes.
Julian’s expression hardened. “Still pretending to have dignity?”
