Chapter 3

I was still sitting on Mrs. Patterson's floral sofa when the doorbell rang. Winston, the fluffy Persian cat, had settled into a purring ball on my lap, his warmth a small comfort against the chill that had settled in my bones.

"I'll get it, dear," Mrs. Patterson said, setting down her teacup. "You rest."

I heard murmured voices at the door, then Mrs. Patterson returned, her face grim. "There's a young man here. Says he has papers for you."

My heart plummeted. "From Marcus?"

She nodded, and a moment later, a clean-cut young man in a suit appeared, looking uncomfortable. "Isabella Martinez?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"These are for you." He handed me a thick manila envelope. "You've been served."

With trembling fingers, I opened the envelope as he retreated. The legal language swam before my eyes, but certain phrases stood out with brutal clarity: *irreconcilable differences... immediate vacation of premises... minimal child support... no spousal support...*

"He's evicting me," I said, my voice hollow. "He wants me out by the end of the week."

Mrs. Patterson took the papers from my shaking hands, her eyes narrowing as she scanned them. "These terms are outrageous. No judge would approve this."

"I don't know anything about divorce law," I admitted, tears welling again. "I don't know what to do."

"You need a lawyer, dear. A good one." She disappeared into her bedroom, returning moments later with a business card. "Rachel Thompson. She helped my niece through a nasty divorce last year. Brilliant woman, absolutely ferocious in court."

I stared at the card, the elegant embossed lettering blurring through my tears. *Rachel Thompson, Family Law Attorney*. With shaking fingers, I dialed the number.

---

"He's done what?" Rachel Thompson's voice was sharp with indignation. She was a striking woman in her forties, with close-cropped silver hair and piercing blue eyes that missed nothing. Her office was small but tasteful, the walls lined with law books and framed diplomas.

"Frozen all our accounts," I repeated, my voice small. "I can't access anything except my personal account, which has barely enough for a month's expenses."

Rachel removed her glasses, cleaning them methodically with a microfiber cloth. It seemed to be a habit when she was thinking. "And you're five months pregnant?"

"Yes."

"With his child?"

"Of course with his child," I said, confused by the question.

"I have to ask." She replaced her glasses. "Men like your husband often try to claim paternity issues to avoid financial responsibility."

The thought made me physically ill. Would Marcus stoop that low?

"These terms," Rachel continued, tapping the divorce papers, "are designed to intimidate you into accepting a settlement that benefits only him. It's a classic power play."

"I can't afford to fight him," I whispered. "He knows that."

"You can't afford not to." Rachel leaned forward, her eyes intense. "Isabella, what he's doing—cutting off your access to marital assets while you're carrying his child—isn't just cruel, it's legally questionable. I'm filing an emergency motion today to prevent him from further depleting your joint assets."

"But I can't pay you," I said, shame burning my cheeks.

"Pro bono," she replied without hesitation. "Cases like yours are why I left corporate law."

For the first time in days, I felt a flicker of hope. "What do I do now?"

"You gather documents. Every financial record you can find. And you take care of yourself and that baby." Her voice softened slightly. "This is a marathon, not a sprint. We're going to make sure you and your child are protected."

---

The sterile walls of the examination room seemed to close in around me as I sat on the paper-covered table in my hospital gown. My five-month prenatal checkup—the one I'd imagined Marcus would attend with me, holding my hand as we caught our first glimpse of whether we were having a son or daughter.

Instead, I was alone, clutching my phone, checking compulsively to see if Rachel had texted about the emergency motion.

"Blood pressure's a bit elevated today," Dr. Chen noted, removing the cuff from my arm. "Any unusual stress?"

I tried to answer, but my throat closed up. Tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them.

"Isabella?" Dr. Chen set down her clipboard, her professional demeanor softening with concern. "What's going on?"

"My husband," I managed between sobs. "He's leaving me. He's filed for divorce and frozen our accounts and—" I broke down completely, my body shaking with the force of my grief.

Dr. Chen handed me a tissue, her face grave. "I'm so sorry. This must be incredibly difficult."

"I'm scared," I whispered, one hand protectively covering my belly. "What if I can't provide for my baby? What if the stress hurts the baby?"

"First, let's check on your little one," she said gently, preparing the ultrasound machine. "Then we'll talk about resources and support systems."

As the cold gel spread across my abdomen, I closed my eyes, praying that at least this—this one precious thing—would still be okay in my crumbling world.