The San Francisco DA’s office had portals and digital reporting options for certain crimes, but this couldn’t fit on a screen anymore. This smelled like a thick case file, forged signatures, prison, or impunity.

At four in the morning, I walked out with a restraining order. Richard couldn’t come near me. Or my home. Or my office. Or my life.

Audrey came out later. She looked pale, one hand resting on her belly. “Victoria.”

I stopped. “Don’t ask for my forgiveness right now.”

“I wasn’t going to.” She swallowed hard. “I’m scared.”

I looked at her. I wanted to hate her. I really did. But she was trembling just like I was. “Then get away from him.”

“I have nowhere to go.”

That phrase bothered me because I actually cared.

Julian stepped in. “My lawyer can help you get a protection order, too.”

Audrey nodded, crying. I left without hugging her. I wasn’t a saint. I was a destroyed woman trying not to break down in front of my husband’s pregnant mistress.

I arrived at my apartment in the Marina District just as the sun was coming up. The building smelled like fresh pastries from the cafe downstairs and early morning dampness.

I opened the door. Everything was exactly the same. His shoes by the sofa. His jacket hanging up. His mug in the sink.

I wanted to destroy it all. Instead, I grabbed black trash bags and started throwing his things in. Shirts. Books. Watches. Photographs. Every object was a dust-covered lie.

When I found our wedding photo, I sat on the floor. I was smiling with stupid happiness. He had his arms around my waist. And I didn’t know that the man behind me was already calculating how much my signature was worth.

Mid-morning, the doorbell rang. It was my sister, Elena. She walked in without a word and hugged me so tight that I finally cried.

“Don’t say ‘I told you so’,” I begged her.

“I didn’t come to win,” she said. “I came to stay.”

For three days, I didn’t go out. I ate instant ramen. I slept in shifts. I answered calls from the lawyer. I blocked Richard’s relatives who texted me, “settle this privately.” Privately. As if my murder had just been a marital issue.

On the fourth day, Julian called me. “We found something.”

We met at a coffee shop in the Mission District, one of those places with tiny tables, hanging plants, and overpriced pastries. Outside, cyclists rode by, dogs wore little sweaters, and people pretended the world wasn’t falling apart between sips of cappuccinos.

Julian placed a folder on the table. “Richard had three policies.”

“Three?”

“One with you. One with Audrey. And one in the baby’s name.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “What?”

“Not as a deceased. As a future beneficiary of a trust. If Audrey died in childbirth or from a ‘complication,’ he would manage everything.”

I covered my mouth. “That baby hasn’t even been born yet.”

“And he was already using it.”

That’s when my hatred shifted. It stopped being fire. It turned to ice. “Where is Audrey?”

“At her cousin’s house. But she wants to see you.”

“No.”

“Victoria…”

“I’m not her friend.”

“No. But you’re the only one who understands that Richard doesn’t love. He invests.”

That phrase haunted me all night. Richard doesn’t love. He invests.

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