Eight months after the divorce, my phone buzzed with his name. “Come to my wedding,” he said, smug as ever. “She’s pregnant—unlike you.”

As for me, I returned to Hart Manufacturing as majority owner. My father’s office became mine. I placed my daughter’s photograph on the desk where Adrian once tried to sign away my future.

Every morning, sunlight touched her laughing face inside that silver frame.

And every morning, I remembered the hospital room, the phone call, the insult meant to destroy me.

It didn’t.

It became the invitation to my revenge.