No Contact
852 Words
The apartment felt different after Mark left. Even with the sweep done, even with the recorders packed away and sealed in plastic, I still felt watched. Like the walls remembered.
I kept glancing over my shoulder. Checking corners. Listening for sounds that weren’t there.
I didn’t sleep much that night either. I left the bedroom light on like I used to when Ethan was a baby and I was alone, just in case. Just so I wouldn’t wake up to darkness.
The next morning, I got dressed and headed into Manhattan to meet with Rachel, the lawyer Cathy had connected me with. The city buzzed as always, like it didn’t care about anyone’s personal crisis. Cabs honked, people moved like ants, and I kept checking my reflection in every window I passed.
Rachel’s office was in a sleek building near Union Square. Clean marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and an assistant with perfect hair who didn’t blink when I said my name.
"She’s expecting you."
I followed her into a conference room where Rachel sat waiting. She was exactly what I expected, maybe mid-thirties, Black, gorgeous, sharp eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses, with a bun so tight it looked like it held secrets. She stood to shake my hand, firm grip, no nonsense.
"Isabel," she said, like she already knew more about me than I did. "Have a seat."
I sat.
She got straight to the point. "Cathy told me a bit, and you told me some as well, but I’d like to hear everything from you in person. What’s going on with Mr. Sinclair?"
I gave her the long version. The past. The baby. The secrecy. The… recent slip. Then I told her about the recorder again. About finding it in the couch. About the second one Mark found by my bed.
Rachel didn’t interrupt. She just nodded, took notes with a fancy black pen, and hummed every now and then like she was filing things away in that razor-sharp brain.
When I finished, she tapped the pen against her notebook. "Alright. First, you need to understand something. If Liam Sinclair is surveilling you without consent, it’s not just shady—it’s illegal. He could face criminal charges, civil suits, restraining orders."
I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek.
"But," she added, "we need proof that links him directly to those devices. Possession isn’t enough. Anyone could’ve planted them."
I swallowed. "So, what do we do?"
"We wait for Mark’s report. If he pulls something—an IP address, a purchase receipt, anything—we move. Until then, no contact with Liam. No angry texts, no sexy visits, nothing."
My face flushed.
Rachel didn’t blink. "Cathy warned me about you."
I groaned.
She smirked. "Relax. I’ve represented worse. Just don’t make my job harder, okay?"
I nodded, thankful and embarrassed all at once.
The meeting ended after she handed me a folder with documents to sign and promised to keep me updated. As I stepped outside, the noise of the city rushed back in. But this time, it didn’t feel like chaos. It felt like control. Like I had a plan.
Sort of.
When I got back home, the place still felt off. Too quiet. Too still.
I FaceTimed Ethan just to see his smile. Cathay had offered to keep him for an extra day.
He was at Cathy’s kitchen counter, eating spaghetti with way too much ketchup.
“Hi Mama!” he grinned, mouth full.
“Hey, baby. Are you having fun?”
“YES. Auntie Cathy gave me a donut. A BIG one.”
“Of course she did,” I muttered.
Cathy leaned into the frame. “Hey, don’t worry. He’s safe. I even made him brush his teeth before the donut. Gold star parenting.”
“Thanks,” I said. “For everything.”
She looked at me a little longer than necessary. “You okay?”
“I think so. I met with Rachel.”
“And?”
“She’s scary smart.”
Cathy smiled. “I know, right?"
After we ended the call, I put on music, something soft, and cleaned the apartment even though it wasn’t messy. I just needed to move. To not think. I hadn’t been able to do much work. But I sent some designs I had worked on for a client to my tailor.
Later that night, I poured myself a glass of wine and sat by the window. The streetlights glowed golden outside. My phone buzzed.
Liam: I know you’re upset. Just tell me what you need. I want to help.
I stared at the message.
He always knew what to say. Always knew how to make it sound like he cared.
But did he?
I didn’t reply.
I couldn’t trust myself to.
Instead, I closed the message, locked my phone, and let myself sink into the silence.
Even though I could still feel the ghost of his fingers on my skin.
Even though every nerve in my body ached with the memory of how he kissed me.
I’d already let him in once.
It couldn’t happen again.
Could it?
- Writer
