Keith didn't sleep.
At dawn, the city below his window was already awake—cars streaming, lights blinking, life moving forward without regard for his unrest. He stood there, coffee untouched, replaying the call again and again.
Is it mine?
You should be asking yourself why you think that question belongs to you.
The deflection was surgical.
Not denial.
Not confirmation.
Control.
By midmorning, he made a decision he'd avoided for weeks.
He went to see his mother.
The Lu estate was quiet in the way wealth perfected—no noise without purpose, no movement without reason. Mrs. Lu sat in the sunroom, tea steaming beside her, tablet balanced neatly in her hands.
She didn't look surprised when he arrived.
"You look unsettled," she said, not unkindly.
Keith sat across from her. "I need to ask you something."
She studied him over the rim of her cup. "You already have."
He stiffened. "What do you know?"
"Enough to recognize panic," she replied calmly. "And to know when a woman has decided she will no longer be managed."
That landed harder than any accusation.
"She hasn't said anything," Keith admitted. "But she's… protected. Legally."
Mrs. Lu smiled faintly. "Then she's prepared."
"For what?"
"For you," she said simply.
Silence stretched between them.
"Mother," Keith said slowly, "did you ever consider that she might—"
"No," Mrs. Lu interrupted. Sharp. Immediate. "And neither should you."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because," she said, setting her cup down with deliberate care, "if the answer is yes, you lose leverage. If the answer is no, you lose dignity for asking. Either way, you lose."
Keith absorbed that.
His mother leaned back. "Some lines, once crossed, make enemies permanent."
Jasmine spent the afternoon at her prenatal appointment.
The room was clean, white, humming softly with machines. She lay still as the technician worked, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"There," the technician said gently. "Strong heartbeat."
Jasmine's breath caught—not with fear, but something warmer. Fiercer.
Alive. Thriving.
Afterward, as she sat in her car, her phone vibrated.
A single message from an unknown number.
We need to talk. No lawyers. Just truth.
She stared at the screen.
Then deleted it.
That evening, Keith received a call from his legal team.
"She's untouchable right now," his counsel said bluntly. "Anything you push will backfire."
Keith rubbed his temples. "And if I don't push?"
"Then whatever she's protecting remains protected."
He laughed once, humorless. "She's turned silence into a weapon."
"Yes," the lawyer agreed. "And you handed it to her."
Across the city, Jasmine stood on her balcony, night wind lifting her hair. The skyline glittered—cold, distant, indifferent.
She thought of the girl she'd been once. Composed. Enduring. Quiet in the face of dismissal.
That girl would have answered his questions.
This woman didn't owe him clarity.
She rested her palm against her stomach again, grounding herself.
"They don't get to decide anymore," she whispered.
And somewhere, far away, Keith stared at his reflection in the darkened glass of his office window, realizing the truth he could no longer escape.
For the first time since the divorce, Jasmine wasn't reacting to him.
She was moving without him.
And that terrified him more than any answer ever could.