I let him hand me the stage, and then I told the truth on it.

The difference is not cosmetic.

It is the difference between a woman making a scene and a woman finally, calmly, refusing to be the scenery in someone else’s lie.

“Just two things,” I said, and my voice carried clear across the lawn.

I looked at Sloane.

Then I looked at Damon.

“First.

Eight months ago, you divorced me because you said I was incapable of giving you a child.” I opened the folder and took out a photograph and held it up, and then I placed it in his hand: Aurora, asleep in her yellow blanket.