“This,” she said, “is textbook.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“No. It’s supposed to make you recognize the move.”
I sat across from her, one hand spread over the top of my stomach because Nora—though she did not have a name yet, I was already thinking of her that way—had spent the morning elbowing my organs like she objected to everything.
Sandra folded her hands. “When a woman prepares, they call it obsession. When she protects herself, they call it aggression. When she’s organized, they call it controlling. The point isn’t accuracy. The point is to make you defend your own competence until you’re too tired to keep fighting.”
I stared at the motion again.
“He used the truth.”
“Of course he did. Good liars usually do.”
That steadied me in a strange way.
Because she was right. Gerald hadn’t invented anything. I had hired an investigator. I had documented patterns. I had moved money. I had built a case. He had simply changed the story those facts told.
Sandra started making notes.
“We answer with context, documentation, and witnesses. And if Ashford wants to argue your behavior was irrational, we remind the court that you spent nearly a decade doing asset-tracing professionally.”
I nodded.
Then my phone buzzed.
Henry.
I showed the screen to Sandra.
She looked at it, then at me. “Speaker. And if Connecticut law worries you, don’t secretly record. Just take notes after. Better yet, tell him you’re putting him on speaker because you’re pregnant and tired.”
I answered.
“Henry.”
His voice came warm and smooth, the way expensive whiskey looks in a glass. “Celeste. I’ve been wanting to check on you.”
I nearly smiled at the audacity.
“That’s kind.”
“I mean it. This whole thing is painful for everyone.”
Everyone. Not you. Not my unborn daughter. Everyone.
I said nothing.
He filled the silence gracefully, which told me he had rehearsed.
“I just think,” he went on, “that when emotions run high, people can create narratives that don’t reflect the full picture. If this gets contentious, there may be testimony from firm events, dinners, holiday functions. I’d hate to see anyone misunderstood.”
Sandra’s pen stopped moving. Her eyes lifted to mine.
I kept my voice flat. “Misunderstood how?”
A pause. Tiny. Satisfied.