said.

“Smart men protect themselves.”

Chelsea was already filming.

I saw my own face reflected in her screen—pale, stunned, frozen.

Someone near the cooler gave a laugh that died halfway out.

A few people stared at their shoes.

Others watched me with bright, alert faces, the way people watch for impact right before a crash.

The baby shifted hard beneath my palm.

And suddenly I understood.

They were not asking a question.

They were staging a reaction.

They wanted tears.

They wanted begging.

They wanted me humiliated enough to break in public so they could point later and say, See? Look how unstable she was.

I gave them none of it.

I walked through the kitchen, past a bowl of watermelon sweating pink juice onto the counter, grabbed my keys, and left before the fireworks started.

Ten minutes later I was in the lobby of Harlan Family Law, breathing air so cold it smelled faintly of dust and copier toner.

The waiting room was nearly empty.

A soft lamp glowed beside a stack of outdated parenting magazines.

Somewhere down the hallway, a printer hummed.

The receptionist took one look at my face and asked, “Are you safe?”

I answered honestly.

“I don’t know yet.”

Then my phone lit up.

One unread message from Chelsea: Did you get her reaction?

One from Valerie: Stall her if she calls anyone.

One from a number I didn’t recognize: Don’t let her get to a lawyer first.

The receptionist saw the reflections on my screen.

Her posture changed instantly.

She stood, locked the front door, and lowered her voice.

“Please don’t leave.”

Before I could ask why, another message slid in.

This one was from Remy.

She’s at Harlan Family Law on Mercer.

Chelsea, keep her outside until I get there.

If she talks to a lawyer, Mom’s whole plan dies.

The receptionist looked at me, then pointed at the message.

“That’s us,” she said.

At almost the same second, headlights swept across the lobby windows.

A white SUV pulled into the parking lot.

My stomach turned so fast I thought I might be sick.

The receptionist snatched up the phone and called down the hall.

“Dana? Now.

Bring security.” Then she looked back at me.

“Someone called three minutes ago asking whether we still took walk-ins.

They described a pregnant woman in a blue dress.

Sit down and do not go near that door.”

I obeyed because for the first time all evening, somebody sounded like they meant to protect me.

Through the glass I saw Remy stride across the parking lot with Valerie behind him and Chelsea trailing a step back, still holding her phone.

Remy yanked the handle.

Locked.

He flattened his hand against the glass and mouthed, “Just talk to me.”

Valerie didn’t even bother to act embarrassed.

She scanned the room until she spotted me and motioned sharply with her fingers, like summoning a child.

Then Dana Harlan came out of the hallway in a dark blazer and low heels, took one look at the parking lot, and held out her hand.

“Phone,” she said.

I gave it to her.

She read the previews, took screenshots, emailed them to herself with my permission, and looked at me over the top of the screen.

“Do not answer a single one