Julia stared at the list. “Evidence preservation?”
Camila looked up from her laptop. “Photos. Messages. Bank records. Timeline. Anything that shows what happened and when.”
“I don’t want to destroy him.”
“I didn’t say destroy. I said protect yourself.”
Julia looked away.
That was the problem. She still thought protecting herself was cruelty to someone else.
Her phone buzzed.
Ethan: Please come home. I made a terrible mistake.
Another buzz.
Ethan: Belle means nothing. You and the baby are my family.
Then another.
Ethan: Don’t make this ugly.
Camila read the screen over Julia’s shoulder. Her expression went flat. “He lost the right to define ugly.”
Before Julia could respond, the doorbell rang.
Camila checked her watch. “That’s Cassian.”
“Who?”
“The lawyer.”
“You already called a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t even brushed my hair.”
“Your hair is not legally relevant.”
Cassian Dorne stepped inside with a leather briefcase, silver at his temples, and a calmness that did not feel cold. He was tall, but not imposing. Careful. Observant. He noticed Julia’s swollen ankles, the untouched oatmeal, the way she sat angled toward the exit. He did not pity her. Julia was grateful for that immediately.
“Miss Madden,” he said, “I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.”
“Me too.”
He sat across from her, opened a yellow legal pad, and placed his pen neatly parallel to the edge. “Before we talk about divorce, we talk about safety. Are you afraid your husband will harm you?”
Julia hesitated too long.
Camila’s jaw tightened.
Cassian saw both reactions. “Fear doesn’t have to mean you expect violence. It can mean you no longer trust someone’s judgment, restraint, or respect for boundaries.”
Julia’s eyes burned.
“I don’t trust him,” she said.
“Then we proceed accordingly.”
They talked for two hours. The house. The mortgage. Ethan’s company, Cascade Events. Their joint accounts. Julia’s teaching salary. Health insurance. Maternity leave. The baby.
The more Cassian asked, the more Julia realized how little she knew about the life she had supposedly shared. Ethan handled the investments. Ethan handled taxes. Ethan insisted her salary go into their joint account because “married people shouldn’t act like roommates.” Ethan had discouraged her from keeping separate savings. Ethan had urged her to sign refinancing papers during her second trimester, when she was exhausted and trusting.
Cassian’s pen stopped moving.
“What?” Julia asked.
He looked at her gently. “There may be financial control here.”
Camila exhaled sharply.
Julia felt defensive before she understood why. “He wasn’t controlling. He just… he liked things efficient.”
Cassian nodded once. “Control often calls itself efficiency.”
The sentence stayed with her.
Then came the pounding at the door.
“Julia!” Ethan’s voice cut through the townhouse. “I know you’re in there. Please, baby. Let me explain.”
Julia froze.
Her whole body responded before thought could intervene. Her stomach tightened. Her hands went cold. The baby kicked hard.
Cassian stood immediately. “Do not open it.”
Camila was already on her phone. “Building security. Now.”
“Julia, please!” Ethan shouted. “Think about our daughter!”
Our daughter.
The words struck Julia where she was weakest.
She began to rise.
Cassian’s voice stopped her. “This moment matters. You do not owe him access because he is emotional.”
She sank back down, shaking.
Security arrived within minutes. Ethan’s voice faded down the hall, first pleading, then angry, then embarrassed when other residents opened their doors.
When silence returned, Julia pressed both hands over her belly and cried soundlessly.
Cassian slid a box of tissues toward her. “We file for temporary protective orders today.”
“Is that necessary?”
“Yes,” Camila said.
Cassian’s answer was quieter. “It creates a boundary the court can see.”
That afternoon, Julia signed papers at Camila’s dining table while rain tapped against the windows. Her signature looked different from the one on her marriage license. Less ornamental. More deliberate.
The first court hearing took place the following Tuesday at the Multnomah County Courthouse. Julia wore a navy maternity dress Camila insisted looked “stable but not submissive.” Cassian brought peppermint tea. Camila brought crackers, printed documents, and a glare strong enough to move traffic.
Ethan arrived with a lawyer and the face of a man who had expected apology to work faster.
Outside the courtroom, he tried one more time.
“Julia, don’t do this. We can fix it.”
She looked at him.
He was handsome in the way that had once made her feel chosen: dark hair, blue eyes, the easy confidence of a man who knew how to charm clients and host rooms. But now she saw the performance. The soft voice pitched for witnesses. The pleading eyes angled for sympathy. The hand on his chest like a man wounded by consequences.
“You brought another woman into our bed,” she said. “There is no fixing that. There is only what happens next.”
His lawyer touched his arm. “Mr. Crowley, let’s go inside.”
The hearing was procedural, almost painfully calm. That made it stranger. Julia had expected drama because her heart was full of it. Instead, the court spoke in terms like temporary support, exclusive use, financial disclosure, no-contact provisions, prenatal medical stability.
Cassian presented Ethan’s messages, his unannounced arrival at Camila’s building, and Julia’s statement. Ethan’s attorney tried to soften everything.
“My client was emotionally distressed.”