My Wedding, His Regret

I posted the digital invitation on Instagram. My ex responded by putting a photo of a baby on his Story. He tagged me. “Done with the silent treatment? Pepper had the baby. Time to get over it. Come see how cute the kid is.” The comments flooded in immediately. Mutual friends. Every single one of them taking his side. “Rowan, look at that little face. Camden chose you. He wants you to be this baby's mother. That means something. Can't you give him a chance?” “Think about all those years. Don't throw everything away over one mistake.” I glanced at my fiancé cooking in the kitchen. Then I posted a photo of our marriage license next to a positive pregnancy test. My reply went up right under it. “I have my own man. My own child. And you—you're ancient history. I don't recycle trash.” The comment section went dead silent. Camden blew up my phone. I didn't answer a single call. We were supposed to get married. Have a baby. Everything was set. Then three months before the wedding, Camden posted a marriage license on Instagram. His name. My stepsister's name. Next to her maternity photos. The caption read: Legally welcoming our little one into the world. My stepsister commented with a shy-face emoji. My mother liked the post. She wrote, “Once the baby's here, I'll take care of everything. You two just enjoy each other.” I couldn't stop myself. I dropped a question mark. Camden's rage hit me like a wall. “She just needed my help to have the baby. That's all.” “Don't be so petty. My mom said you need to produce an heir before the wedding too. This works out fine.” I made a soft sound. No words. Then I deleted every post connected to Camden. Every single one. I put up something new. “Groom wanted. Who's applying?”