Then Adrian made his next move.
One evening, he came home carrying a folder and a bottle of sparkling apple cider, grinning like a man with wonderful news. He said he’d arranged a meeting with my late father’s estate adviser to “simplify things before the baby comes.” He spoke gently, rationally, lovingly. The trust could be streamlined. Tax exposure could be reduced. If we signed now, he said, there would be less stress later. He even framed it as a gift to me. I looked at the folder in his hands and saw the trap so clearly I nearly laughed. Instead, I told him it sounded smart.
The meeting was set for Friday afternoon in a private conference room at the adviser’s office. Adrian seemed relieved after I agreed. Too relieved. That night, after he fell asleep, I lay awake feeling our daughter shift beneath my ribs and tried to calm the racing in my chest. The lawyer had told me not to confront him at home. Claire had told me not to back out. Rebecca had told me men like Adrian never stop on their own; they only stop when the story stops favoring them. By morning, I understood what Friday really was. It wasn’t just a legal appointment. It was the first time I would stop being the woman he believed he could control.
