“Probably.”
You feel the room tilt.
“How far along?”
Marisol zooms in on the image. There is a small appointment card half-visible near the coffee cup. Most people would not notice it. But Marisol is not most people.
The card shows the edge of a date.
And the name of a clinic.
“Got you,” Marisol whispers.
Within twenty-four hours, she has a subpoena request drafted.
Within three days, your attorney formally files for divorce, temporary possession of the marital home, financial support, preservation of evidence, and an injunction preventing Diego from harassing you or spreading claims about paternity before testing.
Diego responds with rage.
Not through court.
Through text.
You’re making this ugly.
You stare at the message, then screenshot it.
Another arrives.
You know what you did.
Screenshot.
Then:
Don’t think that ultrasound proves anything.
Screenshot.
Then:
If you try to take the house, I’ll make sure everyone knows what kind of woman you are.
Screenshot.
Marisol reads them and smiles like a shark.
“Keep going, Diego,” she says. “Make my job easier.”
At the first hearing, Diego walks in with Paola.
That alone tells the judge almost everything.
Paola wears a beige dress and holds her stomach in a way that makes sure everyone sees. Diego sits beside her, jaw tight, looking like a man who expected the world to clap for his suffering but accidentally walked into a room with rules.
You sit with Marisol.
Your hands are cold.
Your baby is the size of a lime, according to the app you downloaded and check every morning like prayer.
When the judge asks why Paola is present, Diego’s attorney says she is “emotional support.”
