And as Nathaniel stepped closer, lifting his hand again, he had no idea I had stopped fearing him three weeks ago.
Because three weeks ago, I found the folder.
Nathaniel’s private office was always locked. But one rainy Tuesday, while he screamed at a contractor outside, he left the key on the kitchen island.
I slipped inside, only looking for tax papers.
Instead, hidden beneath old blueprints in the bottom drawer, I found a thick, unmarked manila folder.
Inside were updated life insurance documents, designed to pay out if I died in an “accident” or was institutionalized. Beneath them were forged medical reports claiming I suffered from prenatal psychosis, violent mood swings, and was unable to care for myself or a baby.
The final document was an emergency custody petition, already drafted, saying I was mentally unstable and dangerous to my unborn child.
Margaret Mercer’s elegant signature appeared on every page.
They weren’t only planning to leave me.
They were planning to take my baby the moment he was born, lock me away in a private psychiatric facility, and seize control of my trust fund once they discovered it existed.
I sat on the office floor for an hour, shaking.
Then the fear hardened into something colder.
