Chapter 4 - The Attorney's Defense
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Malcolm Pierce began with theater. Men like him always do. He spoke of legacy, estates, deception, and the sacred duty of courts to protect families from opportunists. He described me as “a woman of limited means” who had “strategically positioned herself” between the Langham fortune and its rightful beneficiaries. He mentioned the timing of my pregnancy announcement, implying that I had waited until after Gabriel’s death because no living husband remained to confirm or deny it. He produced photographs of me in loose dresses and claimed my body shape changed too conveniently. He produced a receipt from an online costume shop for a fake pregnancy belly, tied to an email address that contained a variation of my name. He produced a disgraced retired doctor who signed an affidavit saying I had once been told I might struggle to conceive.
Every sentence was designed to make my life look like a scheme.
My attorney, a tired but brilliant woman named Elise Moreno, sat beside me with her jaw set. She had taken my case after Gabriel’s old college friend called her and begged. I could barely afford her, and she knew it. She told me we would worry about bills later.
“Right now,” she said the day we met, “we worry about keeping that woman away from your child.”
When Malcolm finished his opening, Elise stood.
“Your Honor, my client has repeatedly offered to undergo an examination by a court-appointed obstetrician. She has provided prenatal records, ultrasound images, bloodwork, pharmacy receipts, appointment confirmations, and sworn statements from her treating physician. The plaintiff has refused every neutral medical confirmation while circulating defamatory claims to the press. We are prepared to prove not only that Mrs. Langham is pregnant, but that this petition was filed in bad faith to intimidate a grieving widow and control the unborn heir of Gabriel Langham.”
The word heir made Beatrice’s mouth tighten. That was what this was truly about. Not truth. Not grief. Not Gabriel. Control. Gabriel had left the Langham trust years earlier, but after his father died, documents surfaced showing he remained entitled to a private share of the family estate—one that would pass to his child if he had one. Beatrice had tolerated me while Gabriel lived because he loved me enough to keep distance between us. Now he was gone, and she wanted to erase me before our son could inherit anything she believed should remain under her command.
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My father listened without interruption.
He did not look at me often. When he did, I felt the weight of ten years press against my ribs. I wondered if he hated me still. I wondered if he saw the girl who left or the woman trembling before him with her dead husband’s child beneath her heart. I wondered if judges were allowed to feel regret.
