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Because this isn’t some hypothetical argument about a broken condom anymore. There’s an actual baby in there, moving under my hand, and I suddenly have no fucking idea whose DNA helped make them.

Grant watches my hand. “But there is a chance.”

“Yeah.” I swallow, wishing like hell I could say otherwise. “There’s a chance.”

Saying it out loud feels fucking awful.

“And if you’re the father, we’ll deal with that when we know for sure. But you and me?” I shake my head. “That’s still over. That will always be over.”

Whatever weird hope had crept into Grant’s expression disappears. “Fine. But if I’m the father, I’m not disappearing just because you don’t want me around. We establish paternity, figure out custody, and handle it like adults.”

The word custody turns my stomach.

My hand is still resting over the spot where the baby moved, and suddenly I can picture what that could mean. Grant alone with my kid, with nobody there to stop all those little comments he probably wouldn’t even think were cruel.

I picture my child coming home from his house and asking me if their clothes are weird because Grant made a face at them. Cutting off their own laugh because he told them they were being too loud. Getting excited about something and checking his expression before deciding whether it’s safe to keep being excited.

Oh, hell no.

I know what that shit feels like as an adult. The thought of my kid learning it before they’re even old enough to understand what he’s doing makes anger burn through the nausea and horror.

Ellie’s shoulder is still pressed against mine, and when I glance at her, her attention is locked on Grant. She looks like she wants to tear the flesh from his body and then dance on his bones.

I look back at him. “We’re done here. Leave me alone.”

“Not happening. I’ll have my attorney contact you.”

My fingers tighten around my cup again, but I keep my voice even. “Fine.”

He doesn’t move right away. He just stands there looking at me, like he’s waiting for something.

I know what he wants. He wants me upset enough to argue with him, ask him not to do this, maybe give him some indication that he still has enough power over my life to make me even the tiniest bit beholden to him.

I’m already fucking terrified. My palms are sweating, my stomach hasn’t stopped rolling—and not from the baby—and I have no idea what I’m going to tell Sumner when I get out of here.

Grant’s gotten enough from me today.

I’m not giving him anything else.

Grant stares at me for another second, his nostrils flaring, then turns and walks away.

I watch the back of his white shirt until it disappears between two vendor tents.

“Girl,” one of the women at the wallet booth says behind me, “I don’t even know you, but that man fucking sucks.”

I turn toward her, and despite everything, a laugh escapes me. “Yeah. He really, really does.”

She pulls out her phone. “And I saw him grab you, so if you need a witness for any of this shit, I’m happy to be one.”

That catches me off guard enough that some of the tightness in my chest loosens. “Seriously?”

“Absolutely. What’s your Instagram?”

I tell her, and she taps at her screen for a second before holding it up so I can see the follow request.

“Got you.”

“Thank you. Really.”