A year after she stole my husband, my former best friend mailed me an invitation to her baby shower. “Come celebrate our little miracle,” she wrote, adding a smiley face. “Sorry you couldn’t give him a son.” I froze, my eyes locked on the open envelope from the DNA clinic on my kitchen counter. The lab results clearly proved my ex had been completely sterile since birth. I stared at the positive paternity test belonging to his brother, and let out a soft chuckle. “I’ll be there,” I whispered to the empty room. She has no idea what my gift is. And when she unwraps it in front of everyone… her fairytale will burn. The invitation arrived in a cream envelope, fat with perfume and cruelty. My former best friend had written my name in the same looping handwriting she once used on birthday cards, apology notes, and the guest list for my own wedding. I stood in my kitchen with rain scratching the windows, staring at the gold letters. Come celebrate our little miracle. Underneath, in pink ink, she had added, Sorry you couldn’t give him a son. For a moment, the room tilted. Then my eyes dropped to the other envelope lying open on the counter. White. Plain. Clinical. The DNA lab’s logo sat at the top like a verdict. My ex-husband, Daniel, had spent six years calling me broken. Six years of doctors, hormones, needles, tears, and him sighing whenever another test came back negative. Six years of my best friend, Camille, holding my hand while secretly holding his. When I found them together, she cried prettily into his shirt and said, “It just happened.” Daniel said, “She makes me feel like a man.” Three months later, they were engaged. Now she was pregnant. Everyone believed it was destiny. I read the lab report again, though I already knew every line by heart. Daniel Mercer: congenital azoospermia. Sterile since birth. Not low fertility. Not damaged fertility. Impossible fertility. The second report was stapled behind it. Alistair Mercer: 99.99% probability of paternity. Daniel’s younger brother. I let out a laugh so soft it barely disturbed the rain. For one year, Camille had posted her victory online. Her hand on Daniel’s chest. Her diamond over my old dining table. Her caption: Some women lose because they were never meant to keep what they had. She had wanted an audience for my humiliation. Fine. I picked up my phone and called my lawyer. “Naomi?” Evelyn answered. “Tell me you’re not looking at that invitation alone.” “I’m looking at evidence,” I said. A pause. Then her voice sharpened. “Good.” “I need certified copies of everything. The fertility records, the paternity results, the financial audit.” “All ready.” “And the house?” “Still legally tied to your settlement clause. If Daniel committed fraud during the divorce, we reopen.” I smiled at the baby shower invitation. Camille thought I was the barren ex-wife crawling back to watch her fairytale bloom. She had forgotten something. Before Daniel married me, before Camille learned how expensive betrayal could be, I built the firm that handled Mercer Holdings’ contracts. I knew where every body was buried. And now, one of them was kicking in Camille’s stomach. “I’ll be there,” I whispered. Then I ordered the gift…