She tilted her head. The platinum waves slid over one shoulder.
"So I made a better one."
Daniel closed his eyes. When he opened them, Madison was staring at him with a stillness that terrified him more than shouting would have. The guests had become a single listening organism. Phones had begun to rise and then lower again under the glare of older relatives who still believed some disasters deserved privacy.
The priest cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should adjourn to the vestry—"
"No," Madison said. She did not look at the priest. She looked at Daniel. "Say it. Here. In front of God and everyone you invited to watch you become a different man. Is that child yours?"
Daniel's answer took three seconds that felt like a year.
"Yes."
The word was small. It did all the work words are asked to do when truth finally arrives without costume.
Madison handed the bouquet to her maid of honor without looking. The white blooms left her hands like a job she had been relieved of. She stepped down from the altar step, ivory train whispering, green eyes never leaving Daniel's face, and stopped close enough that only he and Ava and the nearest bridesmaids could hear the next thing she said — except that the church's acoustics, designed for gospel and confession, carried more than she intended.