Chapter 2 - FETAL MONITORING
The baby’s heartbeat was normal.
I still stared at the monitor as if looking away might change that.
One hundred forty-two.
Then one hundred thirty-eight.
Then back up.
The obstetrician checked me twice.
No placental abruption.
No active bleeding.
No rupture of membranes.
No cervical progression suggesting labor.
Bruised hip.
Strained shoulder.
Swollen cheek.
No fracture.
“Can the baby still be affected later?”
“We’ll observe you,” she said. “Trauma this late in pregnancy deserves monitoring. Right now the tracing is reassuring.”
Reassuring.
Not magical.
Not guaranteed.
But enough to let me breathe.
Dad sat outside because the hospital would not let him hover over every nurse.
He hated rules that stopped him from protecting me personally.
Tonight he obeyed them.
Progress.
A detective took my statement.
I gave it cleanly.
Duncan slapped me.
I lost balance.
Hit the chair.
Fell.
Dad entered after the assault.
He shoved Duncan.
Duncan fell into the table.
“What happened before the slap?” the detective asked.
I hesitated.
Not because I wanted to protect Duncan.
Because I heard his lawyer already.
Pregnant wife exaggerates argument.
We were discussing his affair.
He had denied it.
Then I confronted him with a message I had found accidentally on a shared tablet.
Not sexual.
Worse.
DUNCAN:
Once the baby issue is over, I can finally make the break clean.
WOMAN:
You said that months ago.
DUNCAN:
I didn’t expect Sable to get pregnant.
WOMAN:
What does “issue is over” mean?
No answer in the thread.
When I confronted him, he said:
“If the pregnancy disappears, so does half the complication.”
I asked what that meant.
He told me:
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Then the slap came after I said I would leave and tell Dad everything.
Did Duncan say he intended to hurt the baby?
Not explicitly.
Did I believe his words were threatening?
Yes.
Could prosecutors turn that into attempted murder?
Not from my fear alone.
Good.
Specific.
The detective asked:
“Was this the first time he hit you?”
“Yes.”
That answer embarrassed me because it sounded like a defense.
It wasn’t.
Had he shoved walls?
Yes.
Thrown a phone?
Once.
Blocked a doorway?
Twice.
Called me names?
Regularly during the last six months.
Controlled money?
That question stopped me.
“I don’t know.”
The detective looked up.
“What does that mean?”
“He told me everything was joint. But I recently learned he may have been using assets he didn’t own.”
“Financial abuse?”
“Maybe. I don’t know enough yet.”
Good.
No pretending.
Then Dad gave his statement.
He admitted the shove.
The detective asked:
“Was Duncan advancing toward Sable?”
Dad said:
“No.”
“Was he striking her when you pushed him?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I saw my pregnant daughter on the floor after he hit her.”
“That explains anger. I’m asking about force.”
Dad stared at her.
Then nodded.
“I shoved him because I wanted to hurt him.”
I looked at him through the doorway.
He saw me.
No lie.
Good.
The detective said possible misdemeanor battery charges would be reviewed.
Dad nodded.
No outrage.
No:
Do you know who I am?
That mattered too.
Duncan had superficial injuries.
Bruised ribs.
Split lip.
No fracture.
He declined hospital transport.
Then he did something predictable.
Filed his own complaint.
Claimed Dad attacked him unprovoked.
Claimed I had threatened to “destroy him financially.”
The detective took it.
As she should.
At 2:10 a.m., Dad’s attorney arrived.
Not his corporate lawyer.
A family-law attorney I had never met.
“You prepared?”
“No.”
“She’s here because I made one phone call after the ambulance left.”
I looked at Dad.
“You moved fast.”
“I should have moved months ago.”
Not helpful.
The attorney explained temporary protection order options.
Residence.
Communication.
Firearms, if applicable.
Financial preservation.
No contact except through counsel.
I signed the petition.
Then she asked:
“Do you know whose name the house is in?”
“No.”
Not exactly.
“I know it’s not mine.”
She nodded.
“Do you know whose name the vehicles are in?”
“No.”
“Do you know whether you signed a prenup?”
“Yes.”
That part I remembered.
Duncan hated it.
But he signed.
Simple separate-property agreement.
Neither spouse acquired ownership in the other’s premarital property solely by marriage.
Income deposited into joint accounts could become marital depending on law and tracing.
Ordinary.
No secret empire.
Then Dad opened the black document case.
Police had allowed him to bring it only after determining it belonged to Dad’s family office? Actually he took from house. Need chain? He should not have removed maybe. Better say police photographed contents and released to its documented owner? Let's handle: The case was tagged, contents copied, then released because ownership records showed it belonged to a family management company and had been delivered to Duncan by error? Hmm.
Dad did not physically have case now. The attorney had copies provided by police after Duncan consented? Too quick. Better: Dad's attorney brought copies of lender verification requests already known.
She placed a document in front of me.
PERSONAL FINANCIAL STATEMENT — DUNCAN REED? Wait surname? Prompt Duncan only, Sable no surname. No family name. We can avoid surname.
Assets declared:
Primary residence — $8.9 million.
Vehicles — $410,000.
Managed investment account — $12.6 million.
Family-company interest — $19.4 million.
Total:
$41.31 million.
Owner:
Duncan and Sable, jointly.
I stared.
“That’s false.”
Dad said nothing.
“How false?”
The attorney answered:
“Very.”
Then she pointed to the signature.
Duncan had certified the statement.
Three months earlier.
And below it was another line.
SPOUSAL CONSENT — TO BE PROVIDED BEFORE CLOSING.
My signature was missing.
The lender had requested it last week.
That was how Dad’s office learned.
“What was he borrowing?”
“Eight million dollars.”
“For what?”
The attorney looked at Dad.
He answered:
“We don’t know yet.”
I did.
Or thought I did.
The woman.
The life after me.
The promise that he would take the house, the car, everything.
May you like
Maybe Duncan had not been preparing for divorce.
Maybe he had been financing it.
