After They Ate Me Alive, I Fought Back

Chapter 4—One Move at a Time

Nathan came home at eleven.

He’d barely cleared the door when Liam—who I’d somehow ended up holding—spit up a jet of milk straight down the front of my sweater.

Nathan crossed the room in three strides, shoes still on, peeling the baby out of my arms like I was the hazard. “Why are you holding him?”

The accusation landed before the words did. Why are you holding my son. That’s what he’d meant.

Then the mask slid back into place. “You’re delicate,” he said, softer. “And you hate mess. Go shower. I’ve got this.”

I looked down at the sour stain spreading across my sweater and kept my face carefully blank. “Your mom was in the kitchen making formula. He was screaming. I couldn’t just stand there.”

He frowned—a tiny, involuntary thing—and settled the baby against his chest. “He has a name. Liam.”

Right. The baby who was supposed to be my brother-in-law had a name, and I’d been calling him the baby like he was a package delivered to the wrong doorstep.

“Liam,” I repeated. “Good name. Strong. Carry-on-the-family-legacy kind of name.” I tilted my head. “Though usually a kid takes the father’s surname. Or the mother’s. So why yours?”

“Mom picked it.” He said it fast. “It’s on the birth certificate.”

“Mm.” I watched the way he held the baby—one hand under the head, the other under the bottom, a perfect, practiced cradle. “You’re good at that. The holding. Been practicing?”

“Read a lot of parenting books,” he said, without blinking, “back when we were trying.”

Six years. Six years of watching this man lie without a twitch, and I’d never once caught it. Either he was born with it, or I’d spent six years too busy loving him to ever actually look.

Fine. If he wanted to perform, I’d buy a ticket. Let him act. Let him act his heart out—right up until the night I pulled the whole stage down on top of him.

“You’re so thoughtful,” I said, and let my voice go soft and sad. “It’s a shame about my body. If I could give you a baby, you’d be the best father in the world.”

I turned and fled for the bedroom, letting a sob catch in my throat on the way out.

I left the door open an inch. On purpose.

“What’s wrong with her now?” Doris, low and annoyed.

Nathan’s voice, almost a laugh. “She’s jealous of Liam. Wants a baby of her own.”

“She’s not worthy of carrying the Cole line.” Doris sniffed. “We’ve got Liam now. That’s all that matters.”

The words hit me in the chest like a thrown brick.

Five years ago, I’d married this man because he’d stood beside me in the wreckage of my parents’ death. Because he’d held me together while everyone else circled me like vultures. Because I’d believed—with every cell I had—that he was the one good thing I’d been given.

He’d spent six years building a death for me. Quietly. Patiently. While I planned nurseries and dreamed about babies and loved him with everything I had.

The tears I’d faked were real now.

But crying wasn’t going to save me. So I stopped. Wiped my face. And I started unloving him—which is the same thing as loving him less, only slower.

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Nathan came in a few minutes later. He did the whole routine—the soft voice, the gentle hands, the “don’t cry, baby.” And I did mine—the sniffle, the shaky smile, the slow crawl back toward okay. Then I pulled the settlement agreement out of the nightstand drawer and set it between us on the bed.

“Sign it,” I said. “We file tomorrow.”

His hand closed around the pen. He read the page—I watched his eyes move down it, line by line, and I watched him look for the trap.

There isn’t one, sweetheart. That’s the beautiful part. You sign away everything, and you think it’s a game. You think it’s fake.

It’s the only real thing in this house.

“I trust our marriage completely,” he said, setting the pen down, reaching for me. “I don’t even need to read it.”

“No, no.” I smiled and pressed the pen back into his hand. “Read it. Sign it. Then I can relax.”

He kissed my cheek. “The thought of actually getting those papers still makes me—“ He shook his head. “Let’s slow down. Maybe I can still convince Mom to go back to Liam’s father.”

There it was. The stall. He was terrified of signing anything, because a signature was a real thing, and a real thing could be used against him.

Poor thing. He’s so close. So close to everything he wants. And he can’t see the snare.

I let my face fall. “I hate it too. You, single again, some younger woman sniffing around you.” I sighed. “But I already sounded Mom out. She’s made it clear she’s arranged things—she wants us to register Liam as our son tomorrow, make him our firstborn. So divorce is the only way out.” I looked up at him, eyes wet. “Isn’t it?”

He wanted to say no. I watched him want it.

Then he signed.

I snatched the paper up before the ink was dry, said “I’ll shower first,” and locked myself in the bathroom before he could follow.

He knocked. “Let’s shower together, baby.”

“Old married couples need a little mystery,” I called through the door. “It’s how we keep the spark.”

And while he waited outside, I scrubbed every inch of skin he’d touched. I brushed my teeth three times. I looked at that signed agreement and let myself breathe.

Step one.

The state gives us thirty days before the divorce is final.

Thirty days. One move at a time.

And at the end of them, I’d get to watch him realize—too late—that he’d signed away the only thing he’d ever actually wanted.