Counsel.
Further notice.
Marriage became legal language so quickly when love vanished.
I looked at my left hand. The ring was still there, a delicate oval diamond Elias had chosen after months of pretending he was saving for it. I had later discovered it cost far less than he implied, but I never cared. I thought the sacrifice mattered more than the stone.
Now the ring felt theatrical. A prop.
I slid it off and placed it on the table.
My father watched, his face unreadable.
“I want the annulment,” I said. “Or divorce. Whatever is possible. I don’t want money from him. I don’t want a scene. I want my apartment protected, my name protected, and the truth available if he lies.”
Rebecca nodded once. “That is a clear instruction.”
It took her less than an hour to draft the message.
Elias,
Ella is safe. Given the events of last night and information now in her possession, she will not be communicating directly with you at this time. All further communication should be directed to Rebecca Hart, counsel for Eleanor Grace Wilson. You are not to access, remove, or interfere with any property belonging to her, including the apartment. A formal notice will follow.
Rebecca Hart, Esq.
We debated whether to include the recording.
Rebecca advised against it for now.
“Let them wonder what she knows,” she said. “Uncertainty will make them careless.”
She sent the message from her office email and copied Elias’s personal address.
For twelve minutes, nothing happened.
Then Elias called my phone.
Then Rebecca’s office.
Then my phone again.
Then Cynthia.
Then Brenda.
It was Brenda’s name that made something in me go still.
She had never called me much before. She texted memes, sent voice notes, dropped by unannounced, but calls were rare.
Rebecca let it ring.
A voicemail arrived.
I pressed play before anyone could stop me.
Brenda’s voice was softer than usual, stripped of its easy confidence.
“Ella, it’s me. I know you probably don’t want to hear from anyone right now. I don’t know what Elias told you, but there are things you don’t understand. Please don’t let his mom control the story. Call me. Just once.”
The room shifted.
My father frowned. Rebecca took the phone from my hand and replayed the message.
Please don’t let his mom control the story.
