I try not to think about what else they can manage.
A knock hits the door. My whole body goes tight before my mind even catches up. Not as bad as it used to be. But enough that my shoulders lift and my stomach clenches. I check the chain reflexively. It’s on.
The knock comes again, lighter. “Housekeeping,” a muffled voice says.
I exhale slowly. The kind of breath you have to force out like it’s stuck behind your ribs. “No, thank you,” I call.
“Okay,” the voice replies, cheerful and indifferent, and footsteps move away.
My hands are still shaking. I hate that. I hate that my body still does this, like it’s loyal to fear.
I fold the papers, stack them, and slide them into the envelope like neatness equals control.
Then my phone rings.
Marco.
For a second, I don’t move. For a second, I consider letting it ring out. Letting it go to voicemail. Pretending I didn’t see it.
Then I remember the judge’s voice.Coparenting. Cooperation. Good faith.
I answer. “Hello.”
His laugh comes through first, soft and smug, like he’s already won something. “There she is,” he says. “The little runaway.”
I keep my face neutral. My voice flat. “What do you want, Marco.”
“What I’m owed,” he says easily. “And since we’re doing this the legal way now, I’m going to need you to stop acting like I’m the villain.”
I grip the phone tighter. The urge to tell him exactly what he is burns at the back of my throat. I swallow it down. Because the monitor watched me during the last visit. Because my lawyer warned me. Because the court doesn’t care who bruised you if you look “emotional” when you talk about it.
“Why are you calling?” I ask.
A pause. Not because he’s thinking. Because he wants me to wait.
“There’s a charity gala in three days,” he says. “Mancini Foundation. Big donors. Cameras. The whole thing.”
My stomach drops, slow and heavy. “No,” I say immediately.
He chuckles. “That wasn’t a question.”
“I’m not going,” I repeat, forcing steadiness. “I’m not your girlfriend. I’m not?—”
“You’re the mother of my son,” he cuts in. “And I’m trying to show the court we can be civil.”
Civil.
He says it like a weapon.
I stare at the wall, breathing through the heat rising in my chest. “You ignored him,” I say quietly. “You sat on your phone and ignored him.”
Silence. Then, smooth as oil, “You don’t get to tell me what kind of father I am after you disappeared for three years.”
My vision blurs for a second with rage. “You don’t care about him.”
Marco laughs again, careless. “You care too much. That’s your problem.”
I feel my pulse in my fingertips. “What do you want from me?”
