“The one Marcus told you I was living in,” I said, pulling out a thick, folded stack of printed emails, bank statements, and eviction notices I’d compiled over months.

“The one where he claimed I was throwing wild parties on your dime to cope with the ‘loss’ of our child. In reality, he served me with a restraining order carrying your forged signature, had me evicted from the hotel I was staying in, and forced me into a squalid studio in Tacoma by threatening to have me committed if I ever came near you again.”

Marcus’s confident polish finally cracked. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, and he took a small step back toward the doors. “Mr. Waverly, she’s fabricating these documents.

She’s clearly unwell — postpartum delusions. Let security handle this.”

Preston didn’t look at him. He looked at the crumpled, undeniably real documents in my hand, then down at the wheezing infant in my arms. The scattered pieces of the last year were snapping together into a monstrous picture.