[Sophie’s POV]

The lawsuit consumes everything.

Eight months pregnant now, my body a vessel stretched to its limits, and every day brings new developments that steal my sleep and spike my blood pressure. The weight I carry isn’t just physical anymore—it’s the accumulation of every fear, every uncertainty, every moment spent wondering if we’ve made a terrible mistake by fighting back. Diana calls with updates that range from encouraging to terrifying—Lisette has hired her own legal team, aggressive and well-funded, and they’re contesting every point with the ferocity Diana predicted. Each phone call sends my heart racing, my palms sweating, the baby kicking in response to stress hormones I can’t seem to control.

Depositions begin in December, just weeks before my due date. The timing feels cruel, as if the universe is testing exactly how much we can endure. I’m too pregnant to attend—Dr. Patel has confined me to limited activity, concerned about my blood pressure and the stress that seems to seep through our apartment walls like poison. The confinement makes everything worse. I pace when I can, which isn’t often, and spend hours staring at the ceiling when sleep refuses to come. So I wait at home with Cassian while Adrian faces the first round of questioning, trying not to imagine what Lisette’s lawyers are saying, what weapons they’re deploying. The not-knowing is its own special torture—my mind fills the void with worst-case scenarios that grow more elaborate with each passing hour.

He comes home looking like he’s aged ten years, his face gray and drawn, his hands trembling when he reaches for me. The sight of him steals my breath, sends ice flooding through my veins. I’ve seen Adrian stressed, seen him worried, seen him angry. But I’ve never seen him look this… diminished. As if something essential has been carved out of him and left hollow space behind.

“It was brutal,” he admits, collapsing onto the couch with a heaviness that makes the cushions groan. His voice is rough, scraped raw by hours of answering questions designed to wound. “They asked about everything. Our marriage, our divorce, my relationship with you and Cassian. They’re trying to paint me as someone who uses relationships for personal gain, who discards women when they’re no longer useful.”

I lower myself beside him, my belly making the movement awkward. Every motion requires planning now, deliberate choreography to accommodate the life growing inside me. The baby kicks, as if protesting the anxiety flooding my system—a sharp jab beneath my ribs that makes me wince.

“That’s not who you are.”

“I know. But hearing it laid out like that, twisted into something ugly…” He shakes his head, the movement slow and defeated. The lamplight catches the shadows under his eyes, the new lines etched into his forehead. “Lisette was there. Watching. She didn’t say anything, but I could feel her satisfaction radiating across the room. She’s enjoying this.”

The image makes my stomach turn—Lisette sitting there like a spider at the center of her web, watching Adrian struggle against threads she’s spent years spinning. The hatred I feel for her in this moment is so pure, so crystalline, that it frightens me.

“Of course she is. This is what she wanted—you suffering, struggling, having to justify your entire life to strangers.” I take his hand, pressing it against my belly where Maggie is doing her evening stretches, life asserting itself against the darkness. His palm is cold against my skin, trembling slightly, and I hold it there until I feel some of the tension leave his fingers. “But we knew it would be hard. We prepared for hard.”

“I didn’t prepare for them asking about the baby.” His voice drops, something wounded in the admission. The words come out cracked, broken at the edges, and I watch him struggle to hold himself together. “They wanted to know about paternity. Whether we’d done testing. Whether our ‘unconventional arrangement’ was stable enough to raise a child.”

The violation of it makes my blood boil, heat rising through my chest despite the winter cold outside. My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into palms. Maggie isn’t a talking point in a legal case—she’s our daughter, our future, the best thing any of us has ever created. The thought of strangers in suits dissecting her existence, reducing her to an argument about stability and morality, makes something primal and protective roar to life in my chest.

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