Chapter 3

I could feel their eyes on me the moment I stepped into the office. The whispers followed me like shadows down the hallway, hushed voices that fell silent when I drew too close.

"Did you hear about Delilah's wedding night?"

"...can't believe she's still coming to work..."

"...poor thing, her own sister..."

I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, my fingers instinctively moving to my stomach in that protective gesture I'd developed since learning about the pregnancy. The secret felt like a weight pressing against my ribs—heavy, but somehow grounding.

Sarah Chen, my supervisor, intercepted me before I reached my desk. Her expression was carefully neutral, but her eyes held a warmth that made my throat tighten.

"Delilah, do you have a minute?" she asked, guiding me toward her office with a gentle hand on my elbow.

The moment the door closed behind us, the professional facade dropped. "How are you holding up?" she asked, her voice soft with concern.

"I'm fine," I replied automatically, the words hollow even to my own ears.

Sarah's expression said she wasn't buying it. "Listen, the company has resources. Flexible work arrangements, if you need them. And our employee assistance program is excellent—completely confidential."

I stared at her, the reality of my situation crashing down around me. "How did you—"

"Office gossip travels," she said with a sympathetic smile. "But your privacy is respected. No details, just... support."

The kindness in her eyes nearly undid me. I blinked rapidly, fighting back tears. "Thank you," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

"The offer stands," she said, sliding a business card across her desk. "Whenever you need it."

---

Marcus Thompson's office smelled of leather and expensive cologne. The divorce attorney sat across from me, his expression grave as he reviewed the notes he'd taken during our consultation.

"Mrs. Rodriguez," he began.

"Stephens," I corrected him firmly. "I'd like to go back to my maiden name."

He nodded, making a note. "Ms. Stephens, given the circumstances of your... separation, we have a strong case for favorable terms."

I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable with the clinical way he dissected my marriage. "What does that mean exactly?"

"It means," he said, leaning forward, "that Henry Rodriguez's actions on your wedding night constitute gross infidelity. In this state, that strengthens your position significantly when it comes to property division."

Property division. As if our marriage could be reduced to assets and liabilities on a balance sheet.

"And custody?" I asked, my hand drifting to my stomach again. I hadn't told Marcus about the baby yet—that was a card I wanted to play closer to the vest.

"Custody arrangements are typically negotiated based on the best interests of the child," he explained. "But given Mr. Rodriguez's behavior, we could argue that he failed to demonstrate commitment to family values."

For the first time since that terrible night, I felt a flicker of something like power. Henry had taken so much from me—my trust, my family, my sense of self. But here, in this sterile office with this clinical man, I was finally gaining some control.

"What's my first step?" I asked, straightening my spine.

---

I was halfway through dinner when the first strains of music drifted through my open window. The melody was unmistakably Mexican—a mariachi band playing one of the traditional songs Henry had always loved.

My fork clattered against my plate as I rushed to the window.

There he was, standing on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building. Henry Rodriguez, dressed in an expensive suit despite the evening heat, surrounded by a five-piece mariachi band and holding what looked like at least three dozen roses.

"DELILAH!" he shouted when he spotted me at the window. "PLEASE, JUST TALK TO ME!"

I ducked back from the window, my heart hammering against my ribs. Through the glass, I could see curious neighbors emerging onto fire escapes and peering from windows.

"Noemi's condition is getting worse," he called, his voice carrying up to my third-floor apartment. "But that doesn't change how I feel about you!"

The band played on, their cheerful music a jarring contrast to the desperation in Henry's voice.

"I made a mistake," he shouted. "One mistake! Can't we work past this?"

I pressed my palms against my ears, but his voice still penetrated through my fingers.

"Delilah, please! I love you! I've always loved you!"

A door opened somewhere below, and a neighbor stepped into the hallway. "Sir," I heard her say firmly, "you need to leave."

But Henry wasn't finished. "If you won't come down," he called, "I'll just have to come up!"

I backed away from the window, my hands trembling as I reached for my phone. For the first time since our wedding night, I was truly afraid of what Henry might do next.