He wanted the press told I had suffered “prenatal anxiety and delusional fixation.”
He wanted Savannah introduced as his “longtime partner” two weeks after our daughter was born.
Yes.
Daughter.
That was another thing he hated.
The ultrasound had not shown him an heir.
It had shown him a girl.
He had smiled in the exam room.
He had held my hand.
He had said, “She’ll be brilliant like her mother.”
Then three days later, I heard him on the balcony telling Bennett Ashford, “We need to talk about succession optics.”
Succession optics.
Our baby was kicking under my ribs while my husband discussed her like a weak quarterly forecast.
That was the day I stopped loving him.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
No shattered glass.
No screaming voicemail.
No midnight drive.
Just one small sound inside me.
A door closing.
Now, in Courtroom 4B, Marcus’s legal team arranged their binders like they were preparing to conquer Europe.
Bennett Ashford stood at the center.
Tall.
Silver-haired.
Private-school smooth.
The kind of man who could say “best interests of the child” while billing $1,800 an hour to bury a mother.
“Your Honor,” Bennett began, “Mr. Vale is prepared to provide generous temporary support, including private medical care, provided Mrs. Vale agrees to relocate to a suitable residence outside the city and refrain from public statements regarding this proceeding.”
