Jeff dropped his phone into his pocket.
Ford steadied me on my feet. But he hooked an arm around my waist, his hand gripping my hip. “Jeff and I will escort you.”
I hugged myself, sniffling as I made what felt like a death march through the waiting room, down the hall, and into the next hall.
Ford’s arm felt more like a hug than a death march, though, and I could tell he didn’t want to do this.
“Please tell Peyton I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“For what?” he asked. “The business has already taken off, and it’s all because of you.”
I didn’t have time to feel any relief because we’d arrived at my doom.
The sliding doors of the Birthing Center opened.
Nurse Amy stood there, helping a woman get into a wheelchair. Her forehead furrowed. “Can I help you all? Who—” She stopped. Her eyes went wide.
There wasn’t a woman in the world who wouldn’t recognize Ford Dupree on sight.
Her gaze skittered to me, then to my blond wig, her eyes flashing with recognition.
I looked at the floor.
Ford urged me forward.
Lemon and Silas stood outside the suite door, whispering. James paced in front of them. When Lemon saw me, her hand came to her mouth, James stopped pacing, and Silas pushed off from the wall. But they said nothing, just moved out of the way so I could pass.
As my hand wrapped around the door handle, Ford finally let mego.
I took a deep breath. Then another…
And stepped inside to face my reckoning.
Holding Weston in his arms, I was sure Griffin heard me come in. But he didn’t look up until the door clicked shut. When our eyes met, my breath caught, love rising so fast it physically hurt. But my love was a curse—and looking at him right then, that truth had never felt sharper. He was still so handsome, yes—he always would be—but the light in him had dimmed. Like a man who’d slowly had the life sucked out of him.
That’s what my love had done.
I crumpled into sobs. “I’m s-so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” My head hung. “You never should’ve married me. I’m a terrible person.”
He said nothing, and I was too ashamed to see his reaction. I deserved his silence. Deserved whatever he was about to throw at me.
After at least a minute, he whispered, “Jules… Can you come over here, please?”
Somehow, I dragged myself across the room, though I could hardly see to do it. I looked anywhere but at his face. Or at Weston.
I stopped in front of him, eyes on my feet.
He sniffed. “Can you… Can you take off your wig?”
Gaze on the floor, I reached up and peeled it off, letting it drop.
“Could you sit, please?” he asked next.
I moved over to the bed and sat, legs hanging over the side.
“Lean back against the pillow,” he said.
So I did, pulling my legs up onto the mattress, trying to relax against the inclined hospital bed—no clue why he was doing this.
