The legal battle

Ice flooded through my veins.

He knew.

He knew about the baby.

How? Had he seen medical bills?

Tracked doctor's appointments? Have you gone through my things before I left?

My phone rang again. Same number.

I answered without thinking. "How did you know?"

"Did you really think you could hide it from me?" His voice was cold now, all pretence of pleading gone. "I'm not stupid, Elena. The morning sickness. The baggy clothes. The sudden need to 'escape’. You're pregnant with my child."

"You have no right—"

"I have every right. That's my baby. And you will not keep my child from me."

"The restraining order—"

"It won't matter when I prove you're an unfit mother. Unstable. Delusional.

Running away while pregnant, making false accusations. What judge will give you custody when I can prove you're mentally ill?"

My breath came in short gasps. Panic attack. I was having a panic attack.

"You're a monster," I whispered.

"No, Elena. I'm a father protecting his child from a mentally unstable woman.

And I will win. I always win."

He hung up.

I sat on the floor of my childhood bedroom, phone clutched in my shaking hands, and realised the truth.

This wasn't over.

This was just beginning.

And Alexander was right about one thing: he always won.

But this time, I had something he didn't.

I had something worth fighting for.

I pressed my hand to my belly, felt the tiny flutter that might have been the baby or might have been my own fear.

"I won't let him take you," I whispered.

"I don't care what it costs. I won't let him win."

My phone buzzed again. Sarah.

"Did he call you? Jessica got a notification that someone violated the restraining order from an unlisted number."

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

I looked at my reflection in the darkened window. Pale. Exhausted. Terrified.

But not broken.

Not yet.

"He knows about the baby," I said.

"And he's going to fight for custody."

Silence on the other end. Then: "Then we fight back. We have evidence. We have truth. We have—"

"He has money and power and lawyers who will destroy me."

"But Elena," Sarah said fiercely, "you have something more important. You have the truth. And you have us. And you have a reason to keep fighting."

I touched my belly again. The tiniest life, growing in secret, depending on me for everything.

"You're right," I whispered. "I do."

After we hung up, I lay in bed in the darkness, listening to Rosa moving around in the kitchen, to the familiar sounds of the house I'd grown up in.

Alexander thought he could win by intimidation. By money. By calling me crazy and taking my child.

But he'd made one crucial mistake.

He'd underestimated what a mother would do to protect her baby.

And I would do anything.

Anything at all.

Three weeks of relative peace shattered the moment I walked into Jessica's office for the deposition.

Fourteen weeks pregnant now, the small swell of my belly is just starting to show beneath my loose dress. I'd chosen my outfit carefully—modest, professional, nothing that could be used against me.

Jessica squeezed my hand before we entered the conference room.

"Remember: answer only what they ask. Don't elaborate. And I'll object if they cross lines."

I nodded, my mouth dry.

The conference room was all glass and chrome, expensive and cold. Three lawyers sat across the table—Alexander's legal team from Kelley & Associates. Designer suits, shark eyes, briefcases that probably cost more than Rosa's mortgage payment.

Alexander wasn't there. The restraining order prevented it. But his presence loomed anyway, a ghost haunting every question.

"Ms. Rodriguez," the lead attorney began, a woman in her fifties with steel-grey hair and a voice like cut glass. "Did Mr. Blackwood ever strike you?"

"No."

"Threaten violence?"

"Not directly, but—"

"Yes or no, Ms. Rodriguez?”

I glanced at Jessica. She nodded slightly. Answer what they ask.

"No."

"Did he ever physically prevent you from leaving your residence?"

"Not physically, but he would block doors, follow me from room to room—"

"Yes or no."

My hands clenched under the table.

"No."

"Did he ever restrict your access to money?"

"He monitored all the credit cards—"

"But did he cut off your access completely?"

"No, but—"

"Yes or no."

"No."

Every answer made me sound like a liar. Every "no" erased the reality of what I'd lived through. They were rewriting my abuse into "marital disagreements”.

The lead attorney consulted her notes. "Ms. Rodriguez, when did you discover you were pregnant?"

Jessica leaned forward. "Objection. Relevance?"

"It's very relevant to the timeline of when your client decided to end the marriage." The lawyer smiled, cold and calculating. "The timing seems rather convenient, doesn't it?"

My stomach twisted. "I found out after I'd already decided to leave. The pregnancy had nothing to do with—"

"Can you prove that? Prove that you decided to leave before discovering the pregnancy?"

How do you prove an intention? How do you document a decision made in your own mind?

"I... no. Not with documents. But—"

"So we only have your word." The lawyer made a note. "Ms. Rodriguez, are you claiming Mr. Blackwood is the father of your child?"

The question landed like a bomb.

Jessica started to object, but I cut her off. "Of course he's the father. There's never been anyone else."

"Will you agree to a paternity test?"

"I..." I looked at Jessica. She shook her head slightly. But what choice did I have? "Yes. Fine. I'll take a paternity test."

The implication hung in the air, poisonous and inescapable. That I might have cheated. That the baby might not be his. That all his accusations, all his paranoia, might have been justified after all.

I felt sick.

The deposition lasted three hours. By the end, I was shaking, exhausted and my back was aching from sitting so long.

"You did well," Jessica said afterward. But her face was tight with concern.

"They made it sound like I was lying about everything."

"That's what they do. But we have evidence. Recordings, his journal entries, the GPS tracking. We'll tell the real story at trial."

Trial. The word felt heavy, ominous.

The article appeared two days later in the Seattle Times society section. It didn't name me directly, but everyone would know.

"Blackwood Marriage Ends Amid Mysterious Circumstances"

Tech mogul Alexander Blackwood's marriage to Elena Rodriguez has ended after three years. Sources close to the family describe Blackwood as "devastated by the sudden abandonment”.

The reasons for the split remain unclear, though friends suggest the separation came as a shock to the prominent businessman.

Abandoned. He'd been abandoned. Poor Alexander, victim of his unstable wife's impulsive decision.

No mention of abuse. No mention of control. Just a heartbroken husband, blindsided by his wife's departure.

My phone exploded with messages from people I hadn't heard from in months—all his friends, his colleagues and society contacts who'd never been mine.

"What happened?"

"Alexander seems so heartbroken."

"Are you okay?"

The subtext was clear in every message: Why did you leave such a catch? What's wrong with you?

I deleted them all without responding.

That afternoon, I forced myself to go grocery shopping. First time in public since leaving. I needed to stop hiding.

I was in the produce section, reaching for apples, when a woman approached me.

"You're Elena Blackwood, aren't you?"

I turned, my heart sinking. I recognised her vaguely—one of Catherine's friends from charity events.

"Rodriguez," I corrected automatically.

"I kept my maiden name."

"Oh, of course." Her smile was sympathetic in a way that felt like judgement. "I know Alexander's mother.

Such a lovely family. Catherine is just devastated about the separation."

"Is she?" I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice.

"Whatever's going on between you two, I hope you can work it out.

Alexander is such a good man. He must be beside himself."

I stood there, frozen, as she continued to sing Alexander's praises. The good man. The devoted husband. The heartbroken victim.

"Excuse me," I finally managed, abandoning my half-full cart. "I need to go."

I left the store without groceries, without looking back, feeling everyone's eyes on me and my barely-there belly.

Sixteen weeks now. The pregnancy was undeniable.

I'd found a new OB—Dr. Kim, recommended by Rosa's friend. She was kind, professional, and didn't know Alexander.

"Will the baby's father be involved?" the intake nurse asked, reviewing my forms.

"I don't know yet."

Her expression shifted subtly. Judgement, pity, or both. Single mother. How sad. How difficult.

"Well, you have a good support system," she said, too brightly. "That's what matters."

I nodded, forcing a smile.

At Rosa's house, we'd started converting the small spare room into a nursery. I painted the walls soft yellow, gender neutral. I didn't want to know the baby's sex yet. Didn't want Alexander to have any more information than necessary.

Sarah helped me paint; both of us were covered in yellow splatters, laughing about something ridiculous, when Rosa appeared in the doorway.

Her face was serious.

"Elena. There's someone here to see you."

My blood ran cold. "Who?"

"Marcus, Alexander's brother."

I found Marcus in Rosa's living room, looking uncomfortable and out of place. Guilt was written all over his face.

"I know I shouldn't be here," he said immediately. "But I need to see if you're okay."

My hand went protectively to my belly.

"Why do you care?"

"Because I know what my brother is. I've seen how he gets." Marcus ran a hand through his hair, distressed.

"Elena, I'm sorry. For not saying something sooner. For not helping you when I saw what was happening."

"Why are you here, Marcus?"

"To warn you. Alexander is planning something. He's been meeting with lawyers constantly. Multiple firms. I think..." He hesitated. "I think he's going to fight for custody."

I couldn't breathe. "The baby isn't even born yet."

"I know. But he's already building a case. He's been talking to people—friends, family, and colleagues. Claiming you're unstable. That you left impulsively. That you might be a danger to the baby."

"That's insane."

"I know. But Elena, he has resources. Money. Power. The best lawyers in the state. And he's furious. I've never seen him like this. It's like... it's like he's declared war."

After Marcus left, I sat in the half-painted nursery, surrounded by yellow walls and baby furniture, and tried to process what he'd said.

Alexander was coming for my baby.

Not when the child was born. Not through custody arrangements. Now. Before birth. He was trying to establish that I was unfit before the baby even took its first breath.

That night, a certified letter arrived.

I signed for it with shaking hands, already knowing what it would say.

Petition for Full Custody Upon Birth

Petitioner Alexander Blackwood requests full legal and physical custody of the minor child (unnamed, due April 2026) based on the following grounds:

1. Respondent Elena Rodriguez has demonstrated mental instability, including but not limited to false allegations of abuse, impulsive decision-making, and erratic behaviour.

2. The respondent abandoned the marital home while pregnant, demonstrating inability to make sound decisions regarding the child’s welfare.

3. The respondent has alienated the child's father without cause, demonstrating parental alienation tendencies.

4. The respondent poses potential risk to the child's safety and wellbeing.

Petitioner requests immediate psychiatric evaluation of Respondent and custody determination prior to birth to ensure the child's safety.

I read it three times, each word more surreal than the last.

He was trying to take my baby. Before birth. Claiming I was dangerous, unstable and unfit.

Using my escape as proof of my instability. Using my allegations as evidence of my delusions. Using my strength as a weakness.

I pressed my hand to my belly—sixteen weeks, the baby growing stronger every day inside me.

"I won't let him take you," I whispered.

"I don't care what it costs. I don't care what I have to do. You're mine. And he will not take you from me."

My phone rang. Jessica.

"You got the petition."

"Yes."

"Elena, this is aggressive even for his team. Custody before birth is extremely rare. But we need to take it seriously."

"What do I do?"

"We fight. We present evidence. We show the court who Alexander really is.

And Elena—"her voice softened, _”we prepared for this to get much, much worse before it gets better."

I looked around the yellow nursery, at the crib I'd assembled myself, at the tiny clothes folded in drawers.

This room. This baby. This life I was building from scratch.

Alexander thought he could take it all away.

But he'd forgotten something crucial.

He'd forgotten that the woman he'd spent three years trying to break still had fight left in her.

And a mother protecting her child is the most dangerous thing in the world.

"Then we fight," I said. "Whatever it takes."