PART 2

Daniel stood in the middle of our living room, rainwater darkening the shoulders of his expensive coat, his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscle twitch near his ear.

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

The baby clothes lay folded between us like tiny witnesses.

“You’ve been talking to someone,” he said at last.

I kept my hands still on the blanket in my lap. “About what?”

“Don’t do that.” His voice dropped. “Don’t play stupid with me, Olivia.”

There it was.

The tone he used when he wanted me to shrink.

The tone that used to make me apologize even when I hadn’t done anything wrong.

But something inside me had changed the moment I saw Megan’s message. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was rage. Maybe it was my daughter reminding me, with every kick against my ribs, that I wasn’t just protecting myself anymore.

“I canceled a card in my name,” I said. “That’s all.”

Daniel laughed once, sharp and humorless. “You’re seven months pregnant and suddenly think you’re a financial expert?”

“No,” I replied. “I’m just not an idiot.”

His eyes narrowed.

For a moment, I thought he might shout. Instead, he smoothed his expression too quickly, like a man putting a mask back over his face.

Then he sat beside me.

Not too close this time.

“Liv,” he said softly. “You’re emotional. I understand. Pregnancy hormones make things feel bigger than they are.”

I looked at him.

This man had held my hand at my father’s funeral. He had cried when we found out we were having a girl. He had kissed my stomach every night during my first trimester and whispered promises into my skin.

Now he was speaking to me like a patient he needed to sedate.

“You’re right,” I said quietly. “I’m tired.”

Relief flickered across his face.

He thought I was breaking.

“I don’t want to fight,” I continued. “I’m going to bed.”

He watched me rise from the couch. His eyes followed the curve of my belly, then dropped to the folded onesies. For one second, a strange expression crossed his face.

Not guilt.

Calculation.

“Good,” he said. “Sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

But I knew “tomorrow” meant something else.

Tomorrow meant Carol.

Tomorrow meant pressure.

Tomorrow meant a sweet, poisonous family meeting where I would be told I was unstable, selfish, confused, hormonal, and ungrateful.

So I didn’t sleep.

I waited until Daniel’s breathing deepened beside me. Then I slipped out of bed, took my folder of documents from the locked drawer, and sat at the kitchen table until sunrise, making a list of every account, every insurance policy, every property document, every shared password, every person who had ever told me Daniel was “such a good provider.”

By seven in the morning, I had changed every password I could access.

By eight, I had opened a private account at a different bank.

By nine, Ava had filed the first set of protective paperwork.

By ten, my mother-in-law called.

“Olivia, sweetheart,” Carol said, her voice dripping concern. “Daniel told me you had a little episode last night.”

I stared at my reflection in the dark window. Pale face. Tired eyes. One hand on my belly.