Chapter 7 - THE TEMPORARY HEARING
Duncan appeared polished.
Of course.
Dark suit.
Controlled voice.
No visible rage.
If a stranger watched only the first twenty minutes, they might have wondered whether I invented the man from the dining room.
His lawyer argued:
One isolated slap during a heated marital argument.
No prior physical violence.
Duncan posed no ongoing danger.
The protection order should be narrowed.
My lawyer played the emergency-call recording.
My voice:
I’m thirty-eight weeks pregnant. My husband hit me and I fell.
Then Duncan in the background:
She’s fine.
That sentence hurt.
Not because it was dramatic.
Because he never checked.
The court reviewed hospital records.
Bruising.
Fetal monitoring.
No lasting injury.
Good.
Then messages.
Not all.
Only those relevant to threats.
DUNCAN:
If there’s no baby, there’s no custody leverage.
DUNCAN:
Tonight I force the split.
The judge asked him directly:
“What did you mean by ‘no baby’?”
Duncan answered:
“I meant if the pregnancy had ended naturally earlier, which was a conversation we had because of complications.”
Lie.
I had no pregnancy complications.
The judge knew from records.
My attorney asked:
“Which complication?”
Duncan hesitated.
“Stress.”
No.
Then:
“Did you intend to cause miscarriage?”
“No.”
“Did you strike Sable knowing she was thirty-eight weeks pregnant?”
“Yes.”
There.
Enough for protection.
Not proof of homicidal intent.
The temporary order remained.
No contact.
No residence access except supervised property retrieval.
No firearm possession during order period as required under applicable law.
No financial transfers above ordinary business needs without notice from accounts subject to preservation.
Duncan’s business could still operate.
Good.
No freezing every dollar based on one allegation.
Then his lawyer raised Dad.
Ronan had shoved Duncan.
True.
Dad’s separate misdemeanor case was pending.
Duncan argued Dad should stay away from exchange points after baby’s birth.
Reasonable.
The court agreed initially.
Dad hated it.
I said:
“Good.”
He stared.
“You want me kept away from him?”
“I want no reason for another fight.”
“He hit you.”
“And you shoved him.”
“I would do it again.”
“Then that’s exactly why you shouldn’t be there.”
Dad went silent.
He wanted to protect me physically.
I needed him to learn protection could mean not entering the room.
That was harder for him.
Then Duncan asked for one thing himself.
“Can I be notified when the baby is born?”
The judge looked at me.
My attorney whispered:
“You can agree without granting access.”
I said yes.
He was the father.
Unless legal findings later changed rights, facts mattered.
Duncan looked at me.
For half a second he seemed human again.
Then he said:
“I want a paternity test.”
The room changed.
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because cruelty always looks smaller when it gets petty.
His lawyer closed his eyes.
The judge said:
“You may pursue lawful testing after birth if advised by counsel. That has no bearing on today’s order.”
Outside, Dad was furious.
“He questioned the baby?”
“Let him.”
“You’re not angry?”
“I’m exhausted.”
That was true.
Then my phone rang.
Dad’s corporate attorney.
The lender had frozen Duncan’s private credit application.
Not denied.
Frozen pending investigation.
The development project’s deadline remained.
Duncan had eighteen days before senior financing remedies could begin.
May you like
He was losing time.
And desperate people do not become safer because a judge tells them no.
