Diane smiled with all her teeth.

“Ethan,” I said quietly, “my doctor said labor could start any day.”

He didn’t even look ashamed. He adjusted his sunglasses in the hallway mirror, admiring himself. “Then call an ambulance.”

Diane smiled with all her teeth. “Or don’t. Women gave birth in fields for centuries.”

They had booked five days in Cancún. A “mother-son reset,” Diane called it, because apparently my pregnancy had made Ethan “emotionally exhausted.” I had spent eight months vomiting, swelling, bleeding, building a nursery, managing our bills, and pretending not to notice the way Diane whispered into his ear like a queen poisoning a prince.

“You’re really leaving?” I asked.

Ethan finally turned. “Don’t be dramatic, Nora. You wanted a family. This is part of it.”

“No,” I said. “This is cruelty.”

His face hardened. “Careful. That house, those cards, this lifestyle—you enjoy them because of me.”

That was the first lie.

Diane stepped closer, her perfume choking the air. “When we get back, we’ll discuss boundaries. A wife who can’t please her husband shouldn’t expect sympathy.”

I stared at them. The old Nora would have begged. The old Nora would have cried until her throat burned. But they had underestimated silence.

So I only said, “Enjoy your vacation.”

Ethan smirked. “Try not to make everything about you.”

The door slammed. Their Uber pulled away. The house went still.

Then I locked every deadbolt.

I walked into Ethan’s office, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, and removed the folder he thought I didn’t know about: hidden debts, forged signatures, transfers from my inheritance trust into his failing luxury car business.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Diane appeared:

Don’t embarrass us while we’re gone.

I smiled through the pain tightening across my stomach.

Then I called my attorney.

“Marianne,” I said, breathing slowly, “it’s time.”