The paternity test.
Lena listened without interrupting, which was how I knew she was furious.
When I finished, she sat back and said, “I always knew that woman was terrifying, but this is another level.”
“I don’t have proof yet.”
“You have enough to be careful.”
“I’m scared,” I admitted.
Lena’s face softened immediately.
I had not said those words often in the past five years. There had been no room for fear most days. There were bills, daycare costs, fevers, grocery lists, work deadlines, little hands reaching for me in the dark.
But fear had always been there.
A quiet passenger.
Now it had moved into the driver’s seat.
“What if he wants custody?” I asked.
“Then you get a lawyer.”
“What if his family comes after me?”
“Then you get a better lawyer.”
“What if the boys get hurt?”
Lena reached across the table and took my hand.
“Then they will have you,” she said. “And they will have me. And probably half the parents from kindergarten, because Ethan has somehow convinced everyone he is their emotional support gremlin.”
I laughed despite myself.
Lena squeezed my hand.
“Mara, listen to me. You are not the twenty-three-year-old woman sitting across from Vivienne Mercer with no backup. You are not alone now.”
I wanted to believe her.
The next morning, an envelope appeared under my apartment door.
No stamp.
No return address.
Just my name written in neat black ink.
Mara Bennett.
For several seconds, I simply stared at it.
Then I picked it up carefully and opened it over the kitchen counter.
Inside was a single photograph.
Me, leaving Dr. Han’s office with Damien and the boys.
Taken from across the street.
My stomach turned.
Behind the photograph was a note.
You should have stayed gone.
My first instinct was to pack.
Not clothes. Not toys. Just passports, birth certificates, medical records, the emergency cash hidden in a flour tin, and the boys’ favorite stuffed animals.
My second instinct was to call Damien.
I hated that.
I hated that his name rose in my mind as someone who needed to know.
But if Vivienne had people watching us, he was part of it whether I liked it or not.
He answered immediately.
“What happened?”
I looked at the photograph on the counter.
“Did you have someone follow us yesterday?”
“No.”
“No hesitation.”
“Because the answer is no. Mara, what happened?”
I sent him a photo of the note.
He called back within seconds.
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Are the boys there?”
“At school.”
“I’m sending security.”
“No.”
“Mara—”
“No men in suits outside my sons’ school. No strangers frightening them. No Mercer circus.”
His voice tightened. “Someone followed you.”
“I know.”
“This is serious.”
“I know that too.”
A pause.
Then he said, more carefully, “Let me help in a way you approve.”
That stopped me.
Not let me handle it.
Not you don’t understand.
Let me help in a way you approve.
I closed my eyes.
“Have your attorney contact mine.”
“You have one?”
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