My ex-husband divorced me because he claimed I “couldn’t give him a family.”

The Vance estate in the Hamptons was a monument to old money and carefully curated secrets. Towering hedges hid the sprawling stone mansion from the prying eyes of the public, but today, the gates were thrown wide open. Valets sprinted back and forth, parking a parade of Bentleys, Porsches, and Mercedes-Benzes.

When our custom-armored Maybach pulled up to the sweeping circular driveway, the valet rushed forward, his eyes widening slightly at the imposing matte-black exterior.

Sebastian stepped out first. He adjusted the cuffs of his bespoke charcoal Tom Ford suit, the afternoon sun catching the subtle glint of his platinum Patek Philippe. He exuded the kind of quiet, absolute power that didn’t need to shout to be heard. Then, he turned and offered me his hand.

I stepped out onto the crushed gravel, smoothing down the silk skirt of my emerald-green Oscar de la Renta gown. It was a color that demanded attention, a stark contrast to the pale, washed-out pastels of the other guests.

Then came the pièce de résistance.

The rear doors opened fully, and our nanny, Maria, helped the triplets out. Liam, Noah, and Maya. Three perfect, identical, rosy-cheeked toddlers, dressed to the nines in miniature designer outfits that matched their father’s tailored precision.

The whispers started before we even reached the grand staircase leading to the garden ceremony.

"Is that... Clara?" a hushed voice hissed from a cluster of women in floral fascinators. "It can't be. Look at her. Look at him." "Are those... her children?"

I kept my spine straight, locking my hand with Sebastian’s. His thumb drew soothing, steady circles against my skin.

"Ready to burn it down?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble meant only for me.

"Let’s light the match," I whispered back.

We walked through the arched floral entryway, stepping into a sea of white roses and flowing champagne. The string quartet playing softly in the corner seemed to stutter for a fraction of a second as the cellist caught sight of us.

Standing near the front row, holding a crystal flute of Dom Pérignon, was Eleanor Vance. My former mother-in-law. The woman who had spent five years sneering at me over silver tea sets, calling me a "dry branch" on the Vance family tree.

Her gaze swept over me, then snapped to Sebastian, her eyes widening in immediate recognition. Everyone in the financial world knew Sebastian Cole. But when her eyes finally dropped to the three toddlers holding our hands, Eleanor’s champagne flute slipped from her fingers.