Chapter 4 - ETHAN ASKED ME TO STOP THE DIVORCE, AND I TOLD HIM THE BABY WAS NOT A RESET BUTTON
The next morning, I woke at 6:03 to the sound of Ethan arguing quietly in the hallway.
“I don’t care what she wants.”
A pause.
“No.”
“Mom assaulted her.”
Another pause.
“Then let her attorney handle bail.”
I opened my eyes.
Ethan stood outside my room with his phone pressed to his ear.
His mother.
Or someone speaking for her.
He turned.
Saw me awake.
“I’ll call you later.”
He ended the call.
“Who?”
“Aunt Caroline.”
“Of course.”
“What did she want?”
“For me to persuade you not to pursue charges.”
I laughed.
My abdomen hurt.
I stopped.
“Sorry.”
“No.”
Ethan sat.
“She said Mom panicked.”
“She said the push was a reaction.”
“To what?”
“You accusing her publicly.”
“I announced a pregnancy.”
“I know.”
“Apparently conception is inflammatory.”
He almost smiled.
Then did not.
“She also says the company allegations are why you went to the estate.”
“I hadn’t mentioned them.”
“I told her.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“She asked why Mom would suddenly attack you.”
“And you gave confidential financial concerns to Lydia’s sister?”
His face fell.
There.
The old habit.
Family receives information.
Automatically.
“I didn’t give documents.”
“You told her enough.”
“You’re right.”
“I’m sorry.”
My anger rose.
Then softened because at least he heard it quickly now.
“Ethan.”
“What?”
“You need to understand something before the hearing.”
He became still.
“I’m not canceling the divorce today.”
His face emptied.
“You’re still going.”
“Yes.”
“After this?”
“Especially after this.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“We’re having a baby.”
“Yes.”
“Our baby.”
“Yes.”
“You still love me.”
That was harder.
“I do.”
His hope appeared.
I continued before it could grow.
“Love is not the problem.”
His face changed.
“I don’t trust you.”
He looked as if I had struck him.
“You think I knew about the money?”
“No.”
“You think I knew she’d hurt you?”
“No.”
“Then what don’t you trust?”
“You.”
Silence.
I sat up carefully.
“For years, Lydia said fertility treatment was making me irrational.”
“You started asking whether I was obsessed.”
“She said the company was paying too much for my medical expenses.”
“You asked why we couldn’t accept childlessness and move on.”
“She said I embarrassed you at family events when people asked about children.”
“You started leaving me home.”
His eyes filled.
“That isn’t fair.”
“Yes.”
“It is.”
“Not all of it was because of her.”
“Correct.”
I leaned forward.
“That is exactly why we still need the divorce.”
He stared.
I continued:
“If everything were Lydia’s fault, removing Lydia would fix us.”
“It won’t.”
“Because eventually you believed the things she said.”
“You chose the easier version of our grief.”
“The one where my body was the problem.”
“My treatments were the problem.”
“My refusal to give up was the problem.”
“And when I started defending myself, my defensiveness became the problem.”
Ethan looked down.
“I was exhausted.”
“So was I.”
“I lost six pregnancies.”
“No.”
He looked up.
“Six treatments.”
I corrected.
“Two chemical pregnancies.”
“One miscarriage at nine weeks.”
“Three failed transfers.”
“Don’t rewrite even that.”
His face crumpled.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
The tears came.
Mine too.
“I wanted you beside me.”
I whispered.
“Not fixing it.”
“Not asking how much another cycle cost.”
“Not asking when we should stop.”
“I wanted you to grieve with me.”
He covered his face.
“I didn’t know how.”
“I know.”
“That hurt more than if you hadn’t loved me.”
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then Ethan whispered:
“What if I can learn?”
I closed my eyes.
“Learn anyway.”
“What?”
“Learn because you need to be a better man.”
“A better father.”
“Not because it purchases me back.”
He looked at me.
“And us?”
“I don’t know.”
That was truth.
“If we stay married now because I’m pregnant, we’ll never know whether you chose me or the baby.”
“I choose you.”
“You say that today.”
“Yesterday, before the pool, you were prepared to divorce me.”
“So were you.”
“Yes.”
“Because the marriage was broken.”
“Pregnancy is not glue.”
His jaw tightened.
“But finalizing today feels insane.”
“Then request a short continuance if you need time to review medical and financial issues.”
“Not reconciliation.”
“A procedural delay.”
Ethan stared.
“You already talked to your lawyer.”
“Yes.”
Of course.
The hearing took place by video because I remained under observation.
My attorney, Rebecca Shaw, appeared from her office.
Ethan’s attorney, Miles Greene, joined from downtown.
Judge Caroline Whitaker listened.
No melodrama.
No judge declaring love.
She asked:
“Do both parties still seek entry of final decree?”
I said:
“Yes.”
Ethan said:
“No.”
Silence.
The judge looked at his counsel.
Miles cleared his throat.
“My client requests a thirty-day continuance.”
“Grounds?”
“Recent medical developments.”
“An alleged assault involving a family member.”
“Potential corporate issues that may affect representations in the marital settlement.”
My attorney did not object to thirty days.
Neither did I.
That mattered.
I wanted divorce.
I did not need it signed recklessly.
Judge Whitaker granted thirty days.
Then looked at us through screen.
“Pregnancy is not a basis for forcing reconciliation.”
“Nor does an expected child remove either party’s obligation to provide complete financial disclosure.”
“Use the month wisely.”
The call ended.
Ethan looked at me.
“So we have thirty days.”
“We have thirty days before the decree.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“No.”
“You meant we have thirty days to save the marriage.”
He did not deny.
I shook my head.
“You have thirty days to decide who you are when Lydia is not deciding for you.”
He stood.
Pain flashed across his face.
“What about appointments?”
“What?”
“The baby.”
“I want to come.”
My instinct was no.
Then I considered.
“He is your child.”
“Or she.”
His face softened.
“Right.”
“You can attend if you respect that medical care remains mine.”
“I will.”
“No sharing ultrasound images with Lydia.”
His jaw tightened.
“I wouldn’t.”
“You shared private fertility information before.”
His face went pale.
That had been another wound.
At Thanksgiving two years earlier, Lydia announced to twelve people that my AMH level was “basically nonexistent.”
Only Ethan and my doctor knew the number.
He had told his mother.
He called it seeking advice.
I called it humiliation.
“You’re right.”
he whispered.
“Nothing leaves the appointment without my permission.”
“Agreed.”
“Good.”
Later that afternoon, Detective Monroe called.
Lydia had surrendered through counsel.
Charged with aggravated assault because of the pregnancy and physical circumstances.
The exact charge could change.
She was released pending hearing with a strict no-contact order.
Ethan listened silently.
Then:
“Where is she staying?”
“With Aunt Caroline.”
“Not the estate?”
“Dad changed locks.”
That surprised me.
Frank called an hour later.
“I removed Lydia’s company access.”
My heartbeat changed.
“Temporarily?”
“Pending audit.”
“Good.”
He sounded exhausted.
“Amelia.”
“Yes?”
“I need to ask you something.”
“No.”
He went quiet.
“You don’t know the question.”
“If it is whether we can keep financial findings quiet for family reputation, no.”
Silence.
Then Frank laughed sadly.
“That was the question.”
“Then no.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“I’m learning.”
Apparently everyone.
Naomi’s forensic review expanded with board authorization.
An independent committee formed.
I recused myself from investigative decisions because I was both majority shareholder and potential victim.
No revenge governance.
Facts.
By the end of the first week, auditors found $11.7 million in unsupported or conflicted transactions.
Lydia’s lawyers insisted most were legitimate chair expenditures.
Maybe some were.
One payment could not be explained easily.
$480,000 to Evergreen Reproductive Consulting.
Over five years.
My blood went cold when Naomi showed me.
“What is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Reproductive.”
“Yes.”
“Related to our fertility treatments?”
“No payments appear in your clinic billing.”
“Then why is Bennett Carter Hospitality paying a reproductive consultant?”
Naomi opened the vendor address.
A private office in Atlanta.
Owner:
Dr. Martin Kell.
The name meant nothing to me.
It meant something to Ethan.
He went pale.
“I know him.”
I turned.
“How?”
“He consulted Mom.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“About what?”
Ethan looked at me.
Then at the payment history.
His voice dropped.
“About whether we should stop trying to have children.”
The room went silent.
I stared.
“Your mother paid nearly half a million dollars of company money to a private reproductive consultant…”
My throat tightened.
“…to advise her about my fertility?”
Ethan closed his eyes.
“No.”
May you like
“I think she paid him to advise her about us.”
And suddenly the money Lydia stole was not the only ledger we needed to open.
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