No More

I stare at Nathaniel's name on my phone screen until the light fades and the device goes dark.

I do not call him. Not tonight.

Instead, I lie on the hotel bed with my hand pressed against my stomach, counting the minutes until Marcus returns. The baby moves in slow rolls, as if she knows something is wrong. I talk to her in the darkness, a whisper. I tell her she is safe. I tell her I will never let anyone hurt her.

I do not know if I believe the words.

Marcus arrives at midnight. He carries a laptop and a folder thick with printouts. He sets them on the small desk and tells me he traced the package.

The handwriting belongs to a courier service that asks no questions. The payment was cash, dropped at a drop location downtown. No cameras. No names.

I ask if there is any way to find out.

Marcus says he has people working on it. He pulls up a map, pointing to a mailbox rental store on the edge of the city. The courier picked it up there.

I ask if the store has cameras.

Marcus says he is checking.

I do not sleep. I sit by the window, watching city lights blur against the glass. My phone sits on the nightstand, silent. I think about the sonogram I left behind in the mansion bathroom. I thought it was lost. I thought no one would find it.

Someone found it. Someone kept it for months. Someone waited until now to use it.

I think about Nathaniel. The last time I saw him, in the café. The way his voice cracked when he said he would find a way to fix everything. The way he reached for me, his hand hovering inches from my arm, not quite touching.

I close my eyes and remember his touch. The first time he laid me down on his bed, in the early days when he still looked at me like I was something precious. His hands were everywhere, learning me. He whispered my name against my skin. When he finally entered me, it was slow, deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. I came apart with my fingers digging into his shoulders.

After we married, those moments became rarer. But sometimes, when he came home late and found me still awake, he would pull me against him in the dark. His hands would find my waist, my hips, the hollow of my throat. He would kiss me like he was starving. I would let him push my nightgown up, let him take me quickly, desperately. Those were the only times he made me feel like I existed.

I shake my head. I cannot want a man who let his mother destroy me.

But the wanting is there, coiled low in my belly. I press my thighs together and it only intensifies.

Marcus leaves at dawn to follow the trail. I stay in the hotel room. I call the hospital and tell Dr. Vance I need a personal day. She does not ask questions.

I spend the morning pacing. I try to read. I try to meditate. I try to plan.

Nothing works.

By noon, I know what I have to do.

I take out my phone. I scroll to Nathaniel's name. I remember his voice on the phone last night, rough with sleep, saying my name like a question.

I press the button before I can change my mind.

He answers on the second ring. His voice is low, rough, as if he has not slept.

He says my name. Not Victoria. The name he used when we were married, when he still remembered I existed.

I tell him we need to talk.

There is a long silence. Then he asks where I am.

I do not answer. I tell him I will meet him in a public place. Neutral ground. He can bring whoever he wants. I will bring Marcus.

He asks if I am okay.

I hang up.

Marcus is not happy. He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. He says meeting Nathaniel is a mistake. He will use this to find me, to track me, to drag me back.

I tell him I have no choice. Someone knows about the baby. If it is Celeste, she will come for me whether I hide or not. If it is Nathaniel, I need to know now.

Marcus stares at me for a long moment. Then he nods. He says he will arrange it. He will be there the entire time.

The meeting is set for the following afternoon. A café on the outskirts, neutral ground. Marcus arrives early to check the exits, the cameras, the faces.

I sit at a table near the back, my hands wrapped around a cup of tea I do not drink. I wore jeans and a loose sweater, my hair pulled back. I look like a woman waiting for a friend, not a woman about to face the husband she left five months ago.

He walks through the door at exactly the appointed time.

Nathaniel Preston.

He looks different. Thinner. The sharp angles of his face are sharper now, his jaw tight, his eyes shadowed. His suit is expensive, perfectly tailored, but there is a crease in his collar, a detail the old Nathaniel would never have allowed. He has not been sleeping.

He stops when he sees me. For a moment, he does not move. Something crosses his face. Not anger. Not relief. Something closer to fear.

He crosses the room slowly. He stands across from me, his eyes fixed on my face, then dropping to my stomach, hidden beneath the loose fabric.

He knows. Or he suspects.

I meet his gaze.

I tell him to sit.

He sits.

The silence stretches. The café hums with quiet conversation, the clink of cups, the hiss of the espresso machine. Marcus is at the counter, pretending to read a newspaper, his eyes never leaving Nathaniel's back.

Nathaniel speaks first. His voice is hoarse. He says he has been looking for me.

I ask why.

He does not answer. He looks at my stomach again. Then he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. He places it on the table.

I do not need to open it. I know what it is.

He asks if it is true.

I ask where he got it.

He says Patricia found it. In the mansion bathroom, after I left. She kept it hidden for months. She told Celeste. They were planning to use it. He found out yesterday.

I stare at the folded paper. My sonogram. The first proof of my daughter's life.

I ask what he plans to do with it.

His hands clench on the table. He says he does not want to do anything. He wants to know if the child is his.

I do not answer immediately. I think about the past five months. The nights I spent alone. The life I built without him. The nights I lay in bed and imagined his hands on me, his mouth, his weight.

I tell him the child is mine. That is all he needs to know.

He leans forward. His eyes are darker now, something breaking behind them. He says he has a right to know.

I ask what rights he earned. The anniversary he gave to Celeste. The years he spent believing her lies. The engagement announcement that came without a word from him.

His face goes white. He says the engagement was not real. Celeste arranged it without his consent. He ended it the moment he found out.

I ask if he would have told me, if I had still been there. If he would have called, explained, fought for me.

He does not answer.

I pick up the sonogram. I fold it carefully. I slide it into my pocket.

I tell him I am not here to give him answers. I am here to find out who sent the package. If it was Patricia or Celeste, I need to know so I can protect myself and my child. If it was him, I need to know so I can disappear again, this time where no one will ever find me.

He stares at me. His voice cracks. He says he did not send it. He did not know about the baby until yesterday. Patricia kept it from him. Celeste kept everything from him. He was blind, he says. He was a fool.

I do not argue. I do not comfort him.

I ask if he will stop them.

He says he already has. He cut off Celeste's access. He told Patricia she is no longer welcome. He fired the private investigator. He is having the tabloid articles retracted.

I ask if that will be enough. Celeste knows. Patricia knows. They have already used it once.

Nathaniel's jaw tightens. He says he will handle it. He will make sure they never touch me or the child.

I ask how.

He does not have an answer.

I stand. The meeting is over. I have what I came for. The threat is not Nathaniel. It is the women who raised him.

Nathaniel stands too. He reaches for my arm, then stops. His hand hovers inches from my sleeve.

He asks if he can see the baby.

I look at him. This man who never looked at me. This husband who chose everyone else. This stranger standing in a café, asking for something he never earned.

He is close enough that I can smell him. The familiar scent of his cologne, the clean cotton of his shirt. I remember the way he used to hold me after we made love, his face buried in my hair, his breath slowing against my neck. I remember the weight of him, the heat of him.

My body remembers. My thighs press together. A flush creeps up my neck.

I tell him no.

I walk toward the door. Marcus falls into step beside me.

Behind me, Nathaniel's voice, raw and broken. He says he will find a way. He will fix everything. He will make it right.

I do not turn around.

The drive back is silent. Marcus grips the wheel, his eyes on the road. I sit with my hand on my stomach, the folded sonogram pressed against my thigh.

Marcus asks if I believe Nathaniel.

I say I do not know.

He asks what I will do next.

I look out the window. I think about my daughter, growing inside me, waiting to meet a world that is already trying to hurt her.

I tell Marcus I will protect her. Whatever it takes.

Marcus nods. He says he will help.

That night, I lie in the hotel bed and hold the sonogram up to the light. The shape of my daughter, blurred but real. The date in the corner, marking the day I decided to leave.

Someone wanted me to know they had this. Someone wanted me to be afraid.

They succeeded.

But fear is not weakness. Fear is a warning. Fear is what makes a mother fight.

I fold the sonogram again. I place it in my wallet.

Tomorrow, I will call Lena. I will ask her what it takes to make a threat go away forever.

Tomorrow, I will bury myself in work until I find a way to fight back.

Tonight, I hold my stomach and promise my daughter that no one will take her from me. Not Celeste. Not Patricia. Not Nathaniel, no matter how much he begs.

She is mine.

And I will never let her go.