Chapter 2 - THE LOOK ON JULIAN’S FACE
I had expected Julian to look shocked.
Maybe embarrassed.
Maybe angry.
I did not expect him to look terrified.
Gabriel noticed too.
“Do you want to leave?”
“No.”
My hand stayed on his arm.
Julian crossed the ballroom toward us.
Dalia followed.
Photographers immediately shifted direction.
Nothing attracts wealthy people faster than the possibility of public discomfort.
“Khloe.”
Julian said my name like it had been sitting in his throat for two years.
“Julian.”
His eyes dropped to my stomach.
“How far along are you?”
Gabriel’s expression sharpened.
I answered before he could.
“Twenty-one weeks.”
Julian went pale.
Dalia touched his arm.
“Julian?”
He ignored her.
“Who’s the father?”
A few people nearby actually gasped.
Gabriel’s voice turned cold.
“Careful.”
I almost laughed.
Julian always did know how to make an ugly moment worse.
I looked at Gabriel.
Then at Julian.
“Gabriel.”
The answer should have ended it.
Instead, Julian stared at me.
“No.”
The room around us seemed to disappear.
I frowned.
“What?”
He looked genuinely shaken.
“That’s not possible.”
Gabriel stepped closer.
“You’re done.”
Julian ignored him.
“Khloe, we need to talk privately.”
“No.”
“Now.”
“No.”
Dalia’s face had gone white.
That mattered.
I turned toward her.
“Dalia?”
She looked away.
Julian noticed.
“What do you know?”
“Nothing.”
He grabbed her wrist.
She pulled free.
“Don’t.”
The old dynamic between them suddenly looked different.
Less romantic.
More frightened.
Gabriel’s hand settled gently at my back.
“We can leave.”
I was tempted.
Then Julian said:
“Khloe, did you ever receive the fertility records after our divorce?”
My blood went cold.
“What records?”
Silence.
Gabriel looked at me.
“You never told me there were records.”
“There weren’t.”
Julian’s face tightened.
“There were.”
I stared.
During the last year of our marriage, we had undergone fertility testing.
Bloodwork.
Hormonal panels.
Ultrasounds.
Julian had done one semen analysis.
He told me everything was normal.
Doctors told me nothing definitive.
We kept trying.
And failing.
“Why are you asking?”
Julian looked at Dalia again.
She seemed ready to run.
“Because after the divorce, my doctor contacted me.”
My throat tightened.
“About what?”
Julian answered slowly.
“The original lab made an error.”
I felt Gabriel’s hand steady me.
“What kind of error?”
Julian swallowed.
“The fertility problem was never yours.”
The ballroom seemed to tilt.
I heard the old headlines in my head.
Barren wife.
Failed marriage.
No heir.
Woman who couldn’t give Julian Duval a family.
I whispered:
“What are you saying?”
Julian looked sick.
“My sperm count was essentially zero.”
I stopped breathing.
“Essentially?”
“Infertile.”
The word landed like a slap.
I stared at him.
“You knew.”
“After the divorce.”
“How long after?”
He did not answer fast enough.
My anger rose.
“How long?”
“Three weeks.”
Three weeks.
Three weeks after our divorce, he learned I had spent years carrying blame that belonged to him medically.
And he said nothing.
“You knew those headlines were false.”
“Yes.”
“You knew people were calling me barren.”
“Yes.”
“And you let them.”
His face twisted.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You knew how to tell every magazine Dalia made you feel alive again.”
Dalia whispered:
“Khloe…”
I turned.
“What?”
Her eyes filled.
“I told him to tell you.”
Julian looked at her.
“Don’t.”
“No.”
She stepped away from him.
“She deserves to know everything.”
My heart started pounding.
“Everything?”
Dalia looked at my stomach.
Then at Gabriel.
And said:
“Julian was not naturally infertile.”
Gabriel’s face changed.
Neither did mine.
May you like
Dalia continued:
“Someone caused it.”
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