Chapter 7: Romilly Draws A Line

“Gerald,” she said. “A word.”

He didn’t argue. He just stood there, a coffee cup abandoned on the desk, watching Margaret the way a man watches weather he can’t do anything about. I gathered the manuscript pages, said something polite I don’t even remember saying, and left before I could hear whatever conversation was about to happen behind that closed door.

I went straight to Romilly’s office.

She took one look at my face and set down her pen like she already knew whatever I was about to say was going to ruin her evening.

“Sit,” she said. “Talk.”

I told her everything in a rush — the bouquet, the standing order, the eight months, Gerald’s shaking hands, Margaret cutting him off mid-sentence like she’d been listening at the door the whole time. Romilly’s jaw got tighter with every sentence, until by the time I finished she looked like she was chewing glass.

Then she stood up so fast her chair rolled back and hit the wall.

“That’s it.” She was already moving, already pulling a legal pad toward her. “I’m drafting something tonight. A statement. A formal complaint. Something with teeth, Elena, because this isn’t gossip anymore, this is—”

“Romilly.”

“—this is a documented pattern, a florist’s records, a father-in-law who clearly knows something, and I am not going to sit here and let them—”

“Romilly, stop.”

She stopped pacing. Looked at me like I’d slapped her.

“You want me to stop? They lied about your body, Elena. In writing. On a legal document with your name on it.”

“I know what they did.”

“Then why aren’t you angrier?”

“I am angry.” My voice came out quieter than I meant it to, which somehow made the point land harder than shouting would have. “I’ve been angry since the morning I signed that envelope. But angry isn’t the same as ready.”

She crossed her arms, unconvinced, still standing.

“I don’t have proof yet,” I said. “I have a delivery date. I have a man who almost said something before his wife walked in and stopped him. That’s not evidence, Romilly. That’s instinct. And instinct gets you laughed out of a courtroom and straight back into the tabloids as the bitter ex-wife who couldn’t let go.”

She was quiet for a second. Then, slowly, she sat back down.

“So what do you want to do instead? Nothing?”

“No.” I leaned forward. “I want them to think I’m doing nothing. That’s different.”

“Explain.”

“Right now, everyone’s watching me. Margaret’s watching me. Gerald’s terrified of me. Whoever’s been texting me from some unknown number is watching me closely enough to know when I’m standing outside a ballroom in the rain.” I said it steady, even though saying it out loud made my skin crawl a little. “Broken people don’t investigate, Romilly. Broken people cry in their apartment and don’t ask questions. If I let them believe I’ve fallen apart, they’ll stop watching so carefully. And that’s when I find out what they don’t want me to find.”

Romilly studied me for a long moment. Something shifted behind her eyes — not agreement exactly, more like she was recalculating who I’d become in the last few days.

“Let them think I’m broken,” I said. “Broken people don’t investigate.”

“And if they figure out you’re not actually broken?”

I didn’t answer right away.

My phone buzzed on the desk between us. I glanced down.

Unknown number. Again.

Same message as the one that had chased me out of the rain outside the ballroom.

I know what really happened. Call me when you’re ready to hear it.