My ex-husband called me from my hospital bed and invited me to his wedding.

The arrest of Adrian Blackwell at his own altar was on the front page of the New York Post before the string quartet had even packed up their instruments.

"BLOOD, ROSES, AND BANKRUPT BRIDES: BLACKWELL HEIR ARRESTED AT ALTAR FOR STEALING EX-WIFE’S TRUST."

The photo accompanying the article showed Adrian in his wrinkled tuxedo, his hands cuffed behind his back, being led into the rear of a unmarked police cruiser while Celeste stood on the steps of the St. Aurelia Hotel, weeping hysterically in her ruined silk gown as reporters swarmed her like vultures.

By the next morning, I was sitting in Naomi Pierce’s high-floor office in Midtown, nursing a cup of warm chamomile tea. Little Maya was sleeping soundly in a portable bassinet beside Naomi’s mahogany desk, wrapped in a soft lavender blanket.

"The criminal charges are solid," Naomi said, sliding a thick blue binder across the glass tabletop. "Grand Larceny in the First Degree, Scheme to Defraud, and Falsification of Business Records. The District Attorney’s office is salivating over this case. It’s high-profile, the evidence is pristine, and Adrian’s defense team has zero maneuverability."

"What about the money?" I asked, looking out the window at the Manhattan skyline. "The two point four million?"

"We’ve placed an emergency freezing order on all accounts associated with Adrian, Celeste, and A&C Development," Naomi explained. "We’ve also slapped a lis pendens on the Tribeca penthouse. They won't be able to sell a single piece of furniture without my written authorization. But there's a complication."

I looked over at her. "Evelyn?"

"Evelyn," Naomi nodded. "She spent all night calling every judge she’s ever served on a charity board with. She’s hired Harrison & Sterling—the biggest corporate litigation firm in the city. They just filed an emergency motion in family court this morning."

"For what?"

Naomi’s expression hardened. "For full emergency custody of Maya."

My tea went cold in my throat. "Custody? She called me barren! She tried to have security throw me out of the hotel yesterday!"

"Evelyn Blackwell is a narcissist who views lineage as property," Naomi said smoothly, leaning forward. "Now that she knows Maya is a legitimate Blackwell—and the only grandchild in the family—she wants her. Her court filing claims that you are 'financially unstable, mentally unfit due to postpartum depression, and actively weaponizing the infant to destroy the Blackwell family reputation.'"

I stood up so fast my chair scraped against the hardwood floor. "Financially unstable? He stole my money!"

"I know, Mia. Calm down," Naomi said, her voice an anchor of pure logic. "They are playing dirty because they are desperate. They know Adrian is going to state prison. If Evelyn can secure custody of Maya, she can claim guardianship over Maya’s potential share of the Blackwell estate, and more importantly, she can use the child as leverage to force you into dropping the civil fraud charges against Adrian."

"She will never touch my daughter," I whispered, my fists clenching until my knuckles turned white. "I survived two miscarriages, seven years of their emotional torture, and a hospital bed phone call designed to destroy my soul. She will never take Maya."

"Then we go to war," Naomi said simple. "And our first stop is the family court emergency hearing tomorrow morning at nine."

Before I could answer, Naomi’s intercom buzzed. Her receptionist’s voice came through, sounding rattled.

"Ms. Pierce? There is a woman in the lobby. She doesn't have an appointment, but she says she refuses to leave until she speaks to Mrs. Vale."

Naomi pressed the button. "Who is it, Sarah?"

"It’s Celeste," the receptionist replied. "And she’s crying."

Naomi looked at me, raising an eyebrow. "Do you want me to have security escort her out?"

I looked at Maya sleeping peacefully in her bassinet, then at the door.

"No," I said, a cold, calculated calm settling over me. "Let her in."

Two minutes later, Celeste walked into the office.

She looked nothing like the glowing, triumphant bride who had stood beneath the white roses twenty-four hours ago. Her eyes were red and swollen, her hair was tied back in a messy knot, and she was wearing a plain grey hoodie that looked three sizes too big.

She stopped in the doorway, her gaze landing on me, then shifting down to the small bassinet beside the desk.

"Mia," she choked out, her voice raw.

"Sit down, Celeste," I said, pointing to the leather armchair across from me. "Or leave. Those are your only two options."

Celeste sank into the chair, covering her face with her hands as dry, ragged sobs shook her shoulders.

"I didn't know," she wept. "I swear to God, Mia, I didn't know he stole your grandmother's money."

I didn't offer a tissue. I didn't move an inch.

"You knew he was married when you started sleeping with him," I said, my tone flat. "You knew I was in the hospital losing a baby when you sent me anonymous text messages showing his car parked outside your apartment. Don't play the innocent victim now because the bill finally came due."

Celeste wiped her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, looking at me with genuine terror in her eyes.

"He told me the trust was his," she whimpered. "He told me he earned it through an investment firm! He told me you were insane, that you were obsessed with getting pregnant, that you forced him to stay with you using guilt!"

"And you believed him because it was convenient," Naomi interjected from behind her desk. "Because it came with a penthouse in Tribeca and a fifty-thousand-dollar wedding gown."

"He left me with nothing!" Celeste yelled, her voice cracking. "The police froze the joint account this morning! My credit cards were declined at the grocery store! And... and his mother called me an hour ago..."

I leaned forward. "What did Evelyn say to you?"

Celeste swallowed hard, a fresh tear sliding down her cheek. "She told me that since the wedding wasn't officially finalized—since the priest never signed the marriage certificate before Adrian was arrested—I'm not a Blackwell. She told me to pack my bags and clear out of the penthouse by five o'clock today."

A quiet, bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Evelyn discards people the moment they lose their utility. You were supposed to be her trophy bride, Celeste. The one who could give her what I allegedly couldn't. Now you're just collateral damage."

Celeste looked down at her lap, her hand resting sub-consciously against her own stomach.

"I'm pregnant, Mia," she whispered. "It's three months. I found out four weeks ago."

The room went dead silent.

Naomi looked at me, then at Celeste’s stomach.

I stared at the woman who had helped destroy my marriage, feeling a strange, dark twist of fate in my chest.

"Does Adrian know?" I asked.

"He knows," Celeste said, her voice hollow. "That's why he was so arrogant on the phone with you at the hospital. He thought he had won. He thought he had proven to the world that he was the strong one, that you were the broken one."

She looked up at me, her eyes filled with a desperate, pleading light.

"Evelyn wants me to get an abortion," Celeste whispered. "She said a second scandal would destroy whatever chance Adrian has at a defense. She offered me fifty thousand dollars to go to a clinic in Connecticut and disappear."

I looked at Celeste for a long moment. I remembered the cold, clinical rooms of the fertility clinics. I remembered the endless needles, the quiet tears in the dark, the sickening feeling of my own body failing me while Evelyn whispered behind my back.

And I realized something.

Celeste was a snake, yes. She was foolish, vain, and cruel. But she was currently facing the exact same monster I had just escaped.

"What do you want, Celeste?" I asked quietly.

"I want to protect my baby," she said, her voice suddenly regaining a tiny sliver of strength. "And I want to burn Adrian Blackwell to the ground."