The next morning, Damon brought a notary to my hospital room.
He wore a cashmere sweater and the tender expression he saved for cameras. The notary stood at the foot of my bed, uneasy, holding a folder thick enough to bury a woman’s life.
“It’s temporary,” Damon said, brushing hair from my forehead like we were lovers in a movie. “Just medical authorization, household finances, some guardianship language while you recover.”
I looked at the folder. “And if I don’t sign?”
Celeste answered from the doorway. “Then we’ll have to consider whether you’re stable enough to care for the baby.”
My father stood behind her, silent, older than yesterday.
Damon leaned close. “No one wants court, Marin. Especially not with your history.”
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