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Daniel stepped back quietly, leaning against the hood of the SUV.
A few office workers had stopped a few feet away, looking over.
Jason cleared his throat. His eyes locked on my stomach.
"Come with me. Stop playing games with the baby."
I tugged the corner of my mouth into something that wasn't quite a smile. The cold air hit the back of my throat and I coughed.
"Your mom's been going around telling everyone she's about to be a grandmother — because of Natalie's ultrasound. And now you show up playing devoted father?"
His head snapped up. The red in his eyes spread fast.
"What do you mean, Natalie's ultrasound?"
"I've only ever seen one ultrasound printout. Yours. I took a photo of it — it was in your bag."
He yanked out his phone, fingers frantic across the screen.
A familiar black-and-white image was thrust in front of my face.
"Natalie and I — there's nothing there. That day you suddenly called it off, I was furious. I thought — a woman who'd end things like that, with a baby, would only make everything harder."
The way he rushed to explain himself was almost pitiful.
I stared at the image. My stomach turned over.
He'd known all along.
He'd known I was pregnant when he sat at the opposite end of that table, keeping up appearances.
He'd known — and still played the single pilot in front of Natalie.
I knocked his phone aside.
"I make things harder?"
"Jason, you disgust me."
He froze. His hand hung in the air, unmoving.
"I know you're angry."
"But I posted. What else do you want me to do? How many times do I have to say I'm sorry?"
"Six years — wasn't a name, a place in the world, what you always wanted?"
"I made it public. My mom's already pushing for a wedding."
"What's it going to take? You want to blow this up in front of both our families?"
My eyes stung.
"You think going public is the greatest gift you could ever give me?"
"Jason, you think way too highly of yourself."
He clenched his jaw and looked at my stomach with certainty.
"For the baby's sake, I'm not going to argue. Come home."
I watched that patronizing expression on his face. Then, quietly, I reached into my bag, pulled out a crumpled form, and pressed it against his chest.
It slid off and floated to the ground.
"Look at it. Look at what that actually is."
Reluctantly, he looked down.
His pupils contracted.
The blood drained from his face.
It was a surgical consent form — stamped in stark red — for a dilation and curettage procedure.
"When you stood on those steps and watched me fall, because you couldn't risk anyone seeing you care — that baby was already gone."
I watched him bend down with shaking hands to pick up the form, and I said each word clearly:
"That grandchild your mom's been bragging about. Gone."
"Now take your feelings and your guilt — and get away from me."