Dr. Shah didn’t react. She simply opened the file and turned a photograph toward me. It showed Adrian, younger but unmistakably him, standing next to a very pregnant woman at some charity event. His arm was around her waist. Both were smiling at the camera. “Her name was Rebecca,” Dr. Shah said. “She was a patient I knew. By the time she understood what kind of man she’d married, she’d already signed away most of her money and had no one left. He’d isolated her first. That’s why I told you to leave.”
I spent the next day pretending everything was normal. Adrian left for work after kissing my forehead and reminding me to stay off my feet. The moment his car disappeared, I went into his study. He’d never explicitly said I couldn’t go in, but he had a way of making certain rooms feel off-limits without ever saying a word. The drawers were tidy, the shelves color-coded, the desk nearly empty. For ten minutes, I found nothing but contracts, receipts, and an expensive fountain pen. Then I spotted a locked cabinet hidden behind a row of framed travel books. The key was taped underneath the desk.
Inside were three folders with labels I’d never seen before. One held copies of legal documents under another surname. One contained bank statements from accounts I didn’t recognize. The third had my name written across the tab in Adrian’s handwriting. My hands trembled as I opened it. Inside were printouts of my inheritance portfolio, my late mother’s trust schedule, and handwritten notes about timing. One line was underlined twice: “access after birth.” I sat back so abruptly that I felt the baby move inside me.
