All Chapters of Step Aside, dear ex: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Thora’s POVThe pounding outside my building started before sunrise.At first I thought it was construction — heavy boots on pavement, voices in the dark. But when I pulled back the blinds, the flashbulbs blinded me.Reporters.Dozens of them.They stood in a tight cluster at the curb, cameras lifted, voices colliding into one cruel chorus.“Thora, is it true you’re pregnant?”“Is Luke Palmer the father?”“Do you think this proves Quentin Palmer’s case?”My stomach churned. My hand flew instinctively to my belly, as though I could shield the baby from the noise.Avis padded into the room, hair tangled from sleep. “Why are people yelling?”I dropped the blinds fast. “Just… reporters, baby. Nothing to worry about.”But my voice shook, and her eyes narrowed. Too smart. Too aware.She’d grow up knowing her childhood was fought in headlines.By eight o’clock, my lawyer was in my apartment, spreading documents across my kitchen table. She looked tired, her bun falling apart, but her voice w

Thora’s POVBy the third day, the phone felt like it had grown into my hand.Every call started the same — polite, hopeful, rehearsed. By the end of each one, my heart felt like a stone.Some people said yes without hesitation, voices warm, promising they’d speak truth if asked. Those calls gave me a moment of air.Others… hesitated. Voices lowered, excuses piling up. “It’s not a good time.” “I support you, Thora, but…” “I can’t afford trouble.”And every time I hung up, my list looked smaller, weaker.I would sit at the kitchen table, the paper curling where my pen had rested. The list was an effort — not just names but reasons they mattered: dates, small details, the kind of quotidian evidence that becomes convincing under oath. I wrote Mrs. Alvarez because she had led the daycare for ten years and never once raised an eyebrow about my daughter’s welfare. I wrote Dr. Patel because he’d charted Avis’s growth from her first week. I wrote the neighbor who’d brought over soup when I’d b

Thora’s POVThe silence of a phone not ringing is heavier than noise.All morning I’d been waiting — waiting for a call back, a message, even a polite text confirming support. Instead, the hours stretched, empty and sharp, until every buzz that wasn’t for me made my stomach twist. Each vibration sounded like hope and landed like a stone.By noon, my notebook looked more like a casualty list than a wall.Two names crossed out. One “maybe.” A dozen unanswered numbers circled in red.I pressed the pen so hard against the page the ink bled through. The blotches looked like bruises.Quentin hadn’t just touched my life — he was touching theirs. And one by one, they were stepping away.Mrs. Alvarez walked in, her hands playing with the strap of her purse. She did not sit, she did not off her coat, but only stood in the doorway as a person who was bringing bad news. The scent of rain was sticking to her; the cameras of the reporters were clicking like insects.“Thora, I’ve loved Avis like my

Quentin’s POVMost people think destruction comes with fire or fists. They’re wrong.The real art is in pressure. Gentle, steady, constant — like water finding cracks in stone until the whole wall collapses. That’s how you break someone. That’s how you break Thora.And that’s exactly what I was doing.The first brick I pulled was Dr. Patel. The man had seen Avis since she was a baby, had charts and notes that painted Thora as nothing but careful, attentive, responsible. If he testified for her, it would look ironclad. Judges loved pediatricians — “neutral professionals,” as lawyers called them.But neutrality was a myth. Everyone had pressure points.I waited outside his office that morning, my car idling across the street. Patel emerged looking haggard, his phone glued to his ear, his other hand raking through thinning hair. I cracked the window, just enough to catch his words.“…No, I don’t want to be dragged into this. Of course I care about the child, but this—this is a custody wa

Thora’s POVBy the time I got on to the steps of the courthouse the air was already buzzing. Sidestreet reporters were lined up, and the microphones looked like guns. Flashes of the camera were so brilliant that they blurred the morning into a white haze.“Ms. Greenwood, do you think you’re losing?” “Any comment on your witnesses backing out?” “ Do you fear meeting Quentin Palmer in court?Their voices mangled on one, ugly note. I kept walking. Eyes forward. Clenching my hands on the folder which contained the rest of my evidence. The courthouse was dusty and paper-smoking. My heartbeat was drowned in the humming of the fluorescent lights. At the metal detector, I was met by my lawyer, Cara, who was sharp, but kind. “You ready?” she asked. “No,” I said honestly. She smiled faintly. “Good. They claim they will never live to see the first day. We forced our way along the passage. Each door that we went through had echoes--it is the fights of other people, it is other grievi