Chapter 3 - The Cold War at Home**
The baby shower ended in absolute disaster. Within twenty minutes, my mother was quietly ushering our remaining guests out the front door, offering polite, stammering apologies while casting furious glares at Ethan, who remained huddled on the living room floor like a broken man. My sister stayed behind to help clean up the untouched food, her jaw tight with suppressed rage every time she looked at my husband.
When the last car pulled out of the driveway, the house settled into a heavy, suffocating silence.
I walked upstairs to our bedroom, packed a small overnight bag with comfortable clothes, and tossed my toiletries inside. As I zipped the bag shut, Ethan appeared in the doorway, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying.
“Ava… please don't leave,” he choked out, leaning against the doorframe for support. “Where are you going? You’re eight months pregnant! You can't just walk out!”
“I’m going to my parents' house, Ethan,” I replied, my voice completely devoid of the warmth and affection that had defined our marriage for seven years. “And before you start panicking about me driving, my father is waiting downstairs in his car to take me.”
“Ava, let me fix this!” he cried, taking a step toward me. “I’ll call my lawyers! I’ll pull out of the Vance contract tonight! I’ll sign over 50 percent of my company to you right now as a guarantee of my loyalty!”
“You can’t fix this with signatures, Ethan,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “You lied to me. Not about a trivial habit or a small expense—you risked our entire livelihood, our home, and our stability behind my back. You invited corporate predators into our lives because of your ego, and you allowed a stranger to walk into our home and terrorize me while I’m carrying your child.”
“I was protecting you!” he shouted desperately.
“No, Ethan,” I said coldly, picking up my overnight bag. “You were protecting yourself.”
I walked past him down the hallway and down the stairs. My father was waiting by the front door, his expression grim and supportive. He didn't lecture me, and he didn't gloat; he simply took my bag, placed his warm, steady hand on the small of my back, and guided me out of the house.
For the next two weeks, I lived in my childhood bedroom. Ethan called and texted dozens of times every single day, sending long, agonizing paragraphs begging for forgiveness, detailing his steps to dismantle the bad loans, and swearing that he was fighting Marcus Vance in court for corporate harassment and industrial sabotage.
My father confirmed that Ethan was indeed waging a ferocious legal war against Vance Global, utilizing every legal resource at his disposal to destroy the men who had orchestrated the baby shower ambush. But no amount of legal victories could magically restore the shattered trust in my heart. Every time I closed my eyes, I could still see Valerie standing by the cake, pointing at my belly, claiming a life that I thought belonged exclusively to us.
Then, during my thirty-sixth week of pregnancy, a sudden, sharp pain woke me up at 2:00 a.m.
My water broke across my mother’s polished hardwood floor.
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Within minutes, my mother was calling the obstetrician, my father was starting the car, and someone—presumably my frantic sister—had notified Ethan.
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