I thought the divorce would be quick—sign, leave, forget. That was the lie I told myself as I stood in the courthouse hallway, gripping a thin manila folder like it could keep my life together. Then I looked up and froze.
“Marcus,” she said calmly.
Alina stood a few feet away from me, her posture steady, her expression unreadable. Her coat was open. One hand rested protectively on her stomach. Seven months pregnant.
My chest tightened so hard it felt like my lungs forgot how to work. The hallway noise blurred—footsteps, murmurs, a clerk calling names—but all I could see was her.
“Is it… mine?” I whispered, my voice barely human.
She didn’t answer. She just met my eyes. And in that silence, everything I ran from came crashing back.
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