So I ate half a piece of toast because I did not know how to refuse kindness.
Rebecca laid out the plan.
“We begin with protection, not retaliation. First, we secure your personal finances. Second, we notify the bank that no large withdrawals or transfers from joint accounts are authorized without dual confirmation. Third, we preserve evidence. Fourth, we file for annulment if grounds support it, or dissolution if not. That depends on what else we uncover.”
“What about the apartment?” I asked.
“We review the purchase documents. We trace funds. We do not move hastily.”
My father leaned forward. “And Elias?”
Rebecca glanced at him. “Elias will be handled through counsel.”
“I meant personally.”
“Personally,” Rebecca said, “he gets nothing from Ella. No fight, no confession, no emotional performance.”
I looked at my father.
He was staring at his coffee, untouched.
“I want to see him,” I admitted.
Rebecca’s eyes sharpened. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
But I did know.
A part of me wanted to look into his face and find something. Shame. Regret. Fear. Some sign that the man who had bought me flowers from corner stalls had been real, even if only for a little while.
My father’s voice was quieter than Rebecca’s. “You’re looking for the version of him you married.”
I blinked hard.
“Yes.”
“He may show you exactly that version if he thinks it will work.”
That was the trouble with betrayal. It did not only break trust in another person. It made you suspicious of your own memory.
By noon, Elias had shifted from wounded husband to concerned rescuer.
Baby, I’m sorry if I upset you. Just tell me where you are. We can fix this.
Then:
My mom is crying. She thinks you hate her.
Then:
People are asking questions. Please don’t make this bigger than it is.
