Chapter 3

The doors slammed into the wall with a deafening bang.

The whole room fell dead silent.

The cheering stopped short, the whistling died, and even the background music seemed to skip a beat.

Dozens of eyes swung toward me at once. Some were surprised, some were guilty, and a few were full of pity.

Camille's face changed instantly. She nearly lost her grip on her wine glass.

She hurriedly handed the baby to her mother and wiped the lipstick smudge from the corner of her mouth. Then she forced a smile. "Honey, what are you doing here?"

I didn't look at her.

I looked at Oliver Weaver.

He stood there in a sharp suit, every hair perfectly in place, his lips still curved from that kiss.

His face looked a little like mine.

I walked over and punched him in the face.

My fist slammed squarely into the bridge of his nose. He hadn't seen it coming. He let out a yelp and fell backward, knocking over the chair behind him.

Shattered glass covered the floor.

"Your mother wrecked my family back then, and now you're doing the same thing. You're a whole family of homewrecking trash."

Camille screamed and rushed to him. She knelt on the floor, helped Oliver up, and anxiously checked his nose.

Then she whipped around and glared at me. There wasn't a shred of guilt in her eyes, only anger.

"Adam, have you lost your mind? You're a useless man who can't even have kids! What right do you have to hit him?"

Her words stabbed straight into my chest like a knife.

Everyone in the room heard it.

Some people whispered and snickered. Others lowered their heads, unable to look at me.

Camille stood up, her voice shrill.

"I was being considerate! I didn't want to hurt your masculinity, so I kept it from you!"

"Oliver is your brother. We talked it over and decided the baby would be raised as part of our family and call you Dad! What more could you possibly want?"

"And what do you do? Not only are you ungrateful, you come here and lose your mind! You don't know how good you have it, you ungrateful jerk!"

Oliver got to his feet with Camille's help, one hand clamped over his bleeding nose. He couldn't hide the smug little curl of his lips.

But his voice was all hurt innocence. "Adam, Camille was only thinking of you. Don't worry. From now on, the baby will be your son. I'll make sure he's a good son to you. Please don't blame Camille."

I looked at that face, the one that looked a bit like mine, and fought back a wave of nausea.

"Camille, you know better than anyone whether my azoospermia diagnosis is real or not. Did you have fun playing me for a fool?"

Camille went quiet. A flicker of guilt crossed her eyes.

But the friends and relatives around us started piling on me, all saying the same thing.

"Adam, you're being way too petty. Oliver's a great guy."

"Exactly. Camille didn't have a choice. It's not her fault you can't have kids."

Camille's best friend chimed in, too. "What Camille and Oliver have is true love. You're a grown man. Be a little more big-hearted. Oliver's even willing to let the baby call you Dad. If you insist on making things this ugly, aren't you afraid Camille will actually divorce you?"

I turned to look at my in-laws.

The two people who'd once told me they saw me as their own son.

Six months ago, my father-in-law had a sudden heart attack. The emergency treatment and surgery cost over fifty-five thousand dollars. Camille was off somewhere and didn't come home. I was the one who rushed him to the hospital and pulled him back from the brink.

He spent six months recovering after the surgery. Every day after work, I hurried to the hospital. I emptied his bedpan, washed him, and fed him, and I never once complained.

My mother-in-law had held my hand and said, "Adam, you're closer to me than my own son."

Now the two of them stood coldly in the corner and didn't say a single word.

They weren't even bothering to pretend anymore.

My heart ached as I looked at these people. I'd poured my heart out for these friends and elders, and now the whole thing felt absurd.

I took a deep breath. I couldn't be bothered to argue another word.

"Camille, let's get a divorce. I'll let you two have each other."

"Nine o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll see you at the county clerk's office."

With that, I turned and walked out.

Camille's voice rang out behind me, a hint of panic in it. "Adam, stop right there!"

I kept walking.