“What?”
Damian exhales sharply, as if relieved the line opened at all. “We need to talk.”
“We just did. In front of a judge.”
“Not like that. Privately.”
You stare out the window at the wet city beyond the glass. The skyline is turning blue-gray with evening. Somewhere below, a siren wails and fades. “Privacy has been very profitable for you,” you say. “I’m not interested.”
His tone changes. Lower. Softer. The one he used on clients and women and anyone he wanted to charm into confusing manipulation with intimacy. “Cristina, listen to me. This has gotten out of hand. Rebecca didn’t know. The account situation is more complicated than it looks. We can still settle this if you stop pushing.”
There it is again. As if truth is aggression when it inconveniences him.
You rest a hand on your belly. The baby rolls once, slow and heavy, like a reminder from inside your own body. “You built a second life while I was buying prenatal vitamins on a budget because you told me cash was tight.”
A pause.
Then, “I was trying to protect my future.”
The sentence sits in your ear like acid.
You almost thank him for saying it. There are moments when cruelty becomes so pure it turns clarifying.
“You mean protect yourself from consequences,” you reply. “That’s not the same thing.”
“You’re being emotional.”
You close your eyes and smile without warmth. Even now. Even after court. Even after the documents. He still reaches for the oldest tool in the box.
“No,” you say. “I’m being documented.”
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