The words landed cleanly.

Julian was walking down the aisle now.

Celeste remained at the altar, abandoned in the most public possible way, her bouquet trembling slightly in her hands.

When Julian reached the boys, he stopped as if an invisible line had been drawn in front of him.

Owen stared up without blinking.

Theo shifted behind Elena’s arm.

Miles held the toy car against his chest.

Julian’s eyes moved from one face to the next.

His expression fractured a little more with each child.

“How old are they?” he asked.

Elena’s voice stayed steady.

“Five.”

Julian closed his eyes for half a second.

Five years.

Everyone knew what five years meant.

Beatrice stepped between them.

“Julian, do not engage with this.

Not here.”

Julian did not look at her.

“Their names?”

Elena’s anger flickered.

Not because he asked.

Because he had to.

“Owen, Theo, and Miles.”

At his name, Miles looked up.

Julian’s breath caught.

The boy had his mouth.

His exact mouth.

The same little downturn when frightened.

Elena saw the recognition strike Julian like a physical blow.

Owen, who had never met a situation he did not try to manage, lifted his chin.

“Are you our dad?”

A woman in the second row made a soft sound and covered her mouth.

Julian stared at Owen.

Elena wanted to gather the boys and leave.

She wanted to spare them the awful pause, the hundred adult eyes, the bride in white, the grandmother who had already reduced them to a problem.

But Owen had asked.

He deserved an answer.

Julian crouched slowly, heedless of his tuxedo, until he was closer to the boys’ height.

“I think,” he said, voice breaking, “I think I might be.”

Beatrice inhaled sharply.

“Julian.”

He turned on her then, and the courtyard seemed to brace.

“Did you know?”

The question was quiet.

Too quiet.

Beatrice’s expression rearranged itself into wounded dignity.

“I knew Elena had a talent for timing.”

Elena laughed once.

It was not a pleasant sound.

“Do not do that.”

Beatrice’s eyes flashed.

“Do not create a scene at my son’s wedding and then lecture me on manners.”

“Your son’s wedding?” Celeste’s voice came from behind Julian.

She had stepped away from the altar.

Her father hovered helplessly behind her, still holding her arm as if they were continuing a procession that no longer existed.

Celeste looked at Julian, then at the boys.

Her face had gone pale beneath the bridal makeup.

“Julian,” she whispered.

“Is this true?”

He looked at Elena.

“I don’t know what’s true,” he said.

“I don’t know anything anymore.”

Elena opened her handbag.

She had not planned to reveal the papers in front of everyone.

She had imagined a private conversation after the ceremony, perhaps in some side room where Beatrice could not perform respectability for an audience.

But Beatrice had already begun shaping the story with her tone, and Elena knew too well how quickly powerful people turned uncertainty into accusation.

She removed the folder.

The sight of it changed Beatrice’s breathing.

Elena noticed.

So did Celeste.

“I sent you a letter,” Elena said to Julian.

“When I was twenty-two weeks pregnant.

I sent medical confirmation and my contact information.

I sent it certified to your Seattle apartment.”

Julian shook his head.

“I never received a