Page 9 of Pretend You Love Me

He is so sincere, acknowledging the situation without making it a spectacle, treating me like a person having a difficult morning rather than a case file with legs. I feel something in my chest loosen slightly.

“Thank you for coming,” I say, the words feeling both too formal and not formal enough for the moment.

Adrian nods once, then glances at Luca, who’s standing behind the counter with his arms crossed and his jaw set in a way that suggests he’s currently imagining several creative uses for Daniel’s internal organs. There’s a brief, silent exchange between them, Adrian’s eyebrows lifting slightly, Luca’s mouth tightening before he gives a small nod, and then Adrian turns back to me.

“Let’s sit,” he says, gesturing to the corner table by the window. “You can tell me what you’re comfortable sharing, and I’ll answer whatever questions I can.”

We settle at the table, Adrian with his back to the wall, me in the chair facing the window, Luca perched on the counter a few feet away with the posture of someone who’s trying very hard not to hover but absolutely will if needed. The morning light streams through the windows, catching the dust motes in the air and turning them into tiny, suspended stars.

I give Adrian the condensed version. It’s easier the second time, the words coming with slightly less resistance, though my throat still tightens when I mention the hospital. Adrian listens without interrupting, his expression neutral in a way that’s clearly practiced, the face of someone who’s learned to hear difficult things without showing how difficult he finds them.

When I finish, he nods once, then asks, “When did you find the apps?”

“Sunday afternoon,” I say.

“And you have screen recordings of the messages?”

“Yes. They’re in a locked folder on my phone.”

“Is that folder backed up anywhere? Cloud storage, email, anything like that?”

I shake my head. “Just the phone. I was... it happened fast. I didn’t think about backing anything up.”

“That’s fine,” Adrian says, making a note on his phone. “We can deal with that. Do you have access to any shared accounts? Bank, credit cards, mortgage, that kind of thing?”

“Yes,” I say. “We have a joint account for household expenses, and I’m on the mortgage.”

“Good,” Adrian says. “That’s good.” He takes a sip of his coffee, then sets the mug down with careful precision. “I’m going to give you some general advice,” he says, his voice measured. “This isn’t legal counsel, I’m not your lawyer, and you should absolutely get your own representation, but there are some things that are generally true in these situations.”

I nod, wrapping both hands around my coffee mug.

“First,” Adrian says, “don’t confront him. Not yet. I know that’s difficult, but right now, information is your most valuable asset. The moment he knows you’re aware of the situation, he’ll start making moves, closing accounts, transferring money, potentially even trying to establish a different narrative about your relationship. The less he knows about what you know, the better your position.”

It makes perfect sense, which doesn’t make it any easier to hear. The idea of continuing to share a bed with Daniel while knowing what he’s been doing, makes my stomach turn.

“Second,” Adrian continues, “don’t leave the family home. I know it’s tempting, God knows I would want to, but leaving voluntarily can complicate custody arrangements later. You have just as much right to be there as he does.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, the words coming out sharper than I intended. “He doesn’t get to push me out of my own house.”

Adrian nods, his expression approving. “Good. That’s the right mindset to have.” He makes another note on his phone. “Third, document everything. Dates, times, patterns, financial transactions, anything that establishes a consistent record of what’s been happening. The screen recordings are excellent. If you notice anything else, changes in his behaviour, unexplained absences, money moving between accounts, make a note of it. Dates and details matter. And if you decide you want to stay. That is still good information to have, just in case.”

It’s so practical, so straightforward, that I feel something in my chest loosen slightly. This is a problem with steps. With a path forward. Not just a void I’m falling into. I know I can’t stay. I wouldn’t be able to look at him with love and trust again.

“How do I find a lawyer?” I ask. “A real one, I mean. Not just... not just you helping as a friend.”

“I’ll send you some names,” Adrian says. “People I trust. You should meet with a few, see who you’re comfortable with. This is going to be a process, and you need someone you can talk to honestly.”

I nod, making a mental note to check our savings account as soon as I get home. “What about the twins? They’re only five months old. What happens with custody?”

Adrian’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes softens slightly. “That’s going to depend on a lot of factors,” he says carefully. “But generally speaking, courts are reluctant to separate very young children from their primary caregiver, especially when that caregiver has been providing the majority of their care. The fact that you’ve been home with them since they were born, that you’re their primary source of stability, that will be a major factor.”

It’s not a guarantee, but it’s something. A small, specific piece of solid ground in what feels like quicksand.

“Elsie,” Adrian says, his voice careful. “You have more power in this situation than you currently feel like you do. That’s normal, it’s part of the shock, but it’s important that you know it. You’re not starting from nowhere. You’re starting from a position of strength.”

The sentence lands like a physical thing, settling into the space behind my ribs. I have power. Not much, maybe, and not the kind that fixes everything, but enough to stand on. Enough to start with.

“Thank you,” I say, the words inadequate for what I’m trying to express.