She wasn’t early pregnant, where you could pretend it was a trick of fabric or posture. She was heavily pregnant, the curve unmistakable even under her uniform, the kind of visible reality that refuses to be explained away.
For one long moment, Lily’s eyes met his.
Chris expected anger, grief, maybe even the cold satisfaction of someone who finally gets to watch the person who hurt them unravel in public.
Instead, he saw control.
Control that looked practiced, like she had rehearsed it in front of a mirror because she couldn’t afford to fall apart.
“Sir,” she said, her voice steady, distant, and unbearably formal, “what can I get you to drink?”
That word—sir—hit him harder than any insult could have.
Vanessa followed his gaze and frowned, then her expression changed as recognition crawled across her face in real time.
“Chris?” she said quietly. “What is this?”
Chris tried to speak, but his throat tightened, and the only sound that came out was Lily’s name, soft and cracked like something breaking.
“Lily.”
For illustrative purposes only
A flicker crossed Lily’s face—something quick, human, dangerous—before it vanished again.
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