Chapter 4

For my eight-month check-up, Ethan surprisingly showed up.

He played the perfect husband: helping me upstairs, checking me in, handing me warm water, holding a seat for me, and telling me, "Don't let your legs dangle. Put your bag under your feet."

He sat beside me, eyes glued to his phone, typing rapidly as if updating someone in real-time.

I caught a glimpse of his screen, but before I could read anything, he flipped his phone face down on his thigh.

After the exam, Dr. Julian pulled me aside. "Chloe, your iron levels are fine, but your blood pressure is high today."

He paused. "If there's something keeping you constantly anxious, now is not the time to tough it out. Your body is keeping score of your emotions."

I knew he could tell.

"Thank you. I'll be careful."

Walking back to the waiting area, I saw Ethan standing around the corner on the phone. His voice was hushed, but I caught the last two sentences:

"...The check-up went well. I sent you the ultrasound photo."

A pause. "Don't worry. Everything is going according to plan."

I stood two yards behind him, silent and still.

By the time he hung up and turned around, I was already sitting back in my chair, looking at my phone.

"Ready?" he asked, walking over. "Let's go."

"Let's go."

On the ride back, the words "according to plan" kept ringing in my head. Who did he send the ultrasound to? What plan?

An ultrasound photo, a hospital visit, and a whisper in the hallway.

I counted the pieces.

When we got back, he said he had a meeting and left. I stood in the living room for a moment, my gaze falling on the study door.

That door was never locked. I used to go in to grab printer paper, find shipping labels, or use his desk.

I turned the handle. It didn't budge.

A new lock had been installed—a shiny silver keypad that didn't match the original handle.

I tried our anniversary. Incorrect.

His birthday. Incorrect.

The last four digits of his phone number. Incorrect.

I recalled Daisy's birthday post on Instagram. Someone had asked for the date in the comments, and she replied, "May 19th."

0519.

I pressed the numbers.

The door clicked open silently.

On the desk sat the exact same brown envelope he had been holding outside the flower shop three weeks ago.

I opened it.

Inside were four documents.

The first: A drafted divorce agreement. Only Ethan's signature was on it; the wife's signature line was blank. I flipped to the terms and found a line:

"The wife voluntarily waives custody of the child due to health reasons."

The second: A handwritten draft titled "Assessment of Chloe's Mental State During Pregnancy." It listed several points: "Easily agitated," "frequent crying spells," "suspected prenatal depression," "impaired judgment."

I recognized Ethan's handwriting.

The third: A lease agreement. Tenant: Daisy Jiang. Landlord: Ethan Vance. The address was another apartment under his name. The lease started six months ago, with a small note at the bottom: "For child-rearing purposes."

The fourth: A handwritten letter signed by Daisy. The last line read:

"When the baby is a month old, can the three of us take a family photo together?"

I crouched on the study floor, clutching my stomach.

The baby kicked.

I took a few deep breaths, stood up, pulled out my phone, and began photographing every single page.

Four documents. Twenty-six pages.

I held the phone steady, capturing every word under the light, keeping my hands from shaking.

When I finished, I put the papers back in order, slid them into the envelope, placed it exactly where I found it, and stepped out. I scrambled the keypad lock and let the door latch shut.

I stood in the living room.

The coffee table was neatly lined with prenatal vitamins, folic acid, and iron supplements Ethan had bought me.

He wasn't taking care of me. He was taking care of the vessel carrying his child.

I was just a temporary incubator.

I sent all twenty-six photos to Clara.

As I waited, I counted the seconds.

Clara was silent for fifteen seconds. Then she said, "He's insane."

Then she added, "Chloe, listen to me—"

"I'm listening."

"If this goes to court, you'll be on the defensive. If he officially submits that mental health draft along with witness statements, he'll use the 'unfit mother' angle to fight for custody. You must complete a few things before the baby is born."

"Tell me."

"First, get a formal psychological evaluation from a reputable hospital to debunk his draft. Second, establish a stable income stream—at least three months of bank statements. Third, secure an independent apartment to prove you have a stable environment for the baby. Fourth, back up all evidence and leave the originals with me."

I sat on the living room sofa. The sun had set, and the shadows of the vitamin bottles on the table stretched long and dark.

"Okay."

"Chloe, how are you holding up emotionally?"

"I'm fine."

"You can do this," Clara said. "But you have to move fast."

I hung up. For the first time, I walked into my mom's room, sat on the edge of her bed, and said, "Mom, I might need to move back in with the baby."

Mom put down the remote, showing no surprise. She just nodded.

"I knew that man was no good. Whenever you're ready, just let me know. The stove is hot, and your room has been ready."

I hesitated. "When did you get it ready?"

"The first night you came back," Mom said. "You think I didn't know you cried? Your pillowcase was damp."