I brought my four-year-old triplets to my millionaire ex-husband’s wedding because his family invited me there to be humiliated.
They thought I would arrive alone.
They thought I would sit quietly at the back of the garden, near the kitchen doors, where the staff carried trays and the important guests would not have to look at me for too long.
They thought I would watch Michael Sterling marry Isabella Whitmore, the senator’s daughter, and understand once and for all that I had been nothing but an unfortunate chapter in his life.
They expected me to be small.
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