Six months after our breakup, my billionaire ex struts into the lingerie shop where I
work, flaunting his brand-new fiancée. He slams a complicated, sheer lace set onto the
counter with a smirk:
“Why don't you try it on and model it for us? Oh wait, do they even make this
in your size now that you're this fat?”
His bride-to-be giggles right on cue. Adorable. He thinks I gained weight from crying
into ice cream after he dumped me. He has no clue my baggy uniform is hiding a
twenty-six-week baby bump—and it's his.
Take your time shopping, Darian. The real price tag is coming.
