Chapter 6 - The Woman Who Measured My Nursery

Sienna called the following morning. I almost let it ring out. Then I remembered that she had been the person who brought the portfolio into my bedroom, and I wanted to know whether she had anything to say that wasn't an accusation.

“I need to collect my things,” she said. Her voice sounded smaller than it had at the party.

“Rebecca can arrange a time with Alexander's lawyer,” I told her. “Please don't come without an appointment.”

There was a pause. “He told me the apartment was already handled.”

“He told me you were moving in. That didn't make it true.”

Sienna asked whether Alexander actually owned the place. I didn't answer with an insult. I told her Seabright Holdings owned it, I controlled Seabright, and no transfer to Alexander or anyone else had taken place. She was quiet long enough that I wondered whether the call had disconnected.

“Then why did he let me pay attention to every detail?” she asked.

I thought about the drawing of my daughter's room. “You'll have to ask him.”

She didn't apologize for that drawing. Instead, she explained that Alexander had told her the marriage was effectively finished and that the move would be settled long before the weekend. She had believed the apartment belonged to him because he spoke as though every decision about it was his to make.

I could believe that. I had heard him speak that way myself. But it did not excuse Sienna's behavior. She knew I was his wife. She knew I was eight months pregnant. She had stood beside him at the party while he gave me a deadline and then brought renovation plans into my bedroom.

“You didn't have to know who held the title to know you were hurting someone,” I told her.

For the first time, she had no answer. She said she would arrange to retrieve her belongings through the lawyers. The call ended without threats or reconciliation. I was relieved. I didn't need Sienna to become my friend, and I didn't need her to be the only villain. The choices Alexander had made were his own.

That afternoon, I went to my prenatal appointment. My doctor asked the usual questions, checked the baby's condition, and listened while I explained the stress of the previous days. The examination did not show an immediate medical problem, but she urged me to make practical plans for support, rest, and the coming birth. I left with the next appointment scheduled and a clearer appreciation of how little room I had to waste on arguments.

On the ride home, I called my closest friend, who had offered to stay with me if I needed someone nearby. I had hesitated to accept. I was accustomed to organizing my life independently, and I disliked feeling as though I couldn't manage my own household. Then I remembered Maya's question about safety and the doctor's advice. I said yes.

The penthouse was quiet when I returned. Alexander had gone out. A message from Rebecca confirmed that his attorney had agreed in principle to a temporary arrangement under which Alexander would stay elsewhere while the lawyers worked through the separation. The terms still needed to be written and signed. Until then, I wasn't going to treat a preliminary agreement as a final one.

I spent the evening reviewing the documents that had nothing to do with the apartment's ownership: my healthcare instructions, emergency contacts, and the practical things I wanted organized before the baby's birth. I had expected to do all of it with Alexander. Working through it alone hurt, but leaving it unfinished would not make him a better husband.

Maya called the next morning. The lender had provided a copy of the email in which Alexander's finance team described the penthouse as expected security. It did not claim there was an executed deed or mortgage. Yet the wording implied the managing member's approval was assured and the remaining signatures merely administrative. That was far stronger than the reality.

“Do they know he hasn't obtained your consent?” I asked.

“They do now. They're reviewing who made the representation and what internal checks were missed.”

I asked whether the lender could take the apartment anyway. Maya said there was no executed security agreement or filed lien arising from the proposal, and the available records did not show that Seabright had become a party to the financing. Her answer was based on the documents reviewed so far, not an unlimited guarantee about every possible dispute. Still, it was enough for me to breathe more easily.

That evening, Alexander asked to collect a few work files from his study. Rebecca arranged for a mutually convenient time. I stayed in the living room while he packed. I could hear drawers opening and closing. Once, I heard him pause outside the nursery, but he didn't enter.

When he came downstairs, his expression was tired. He looked like the man I'd married in some ways and like a stranger in others.

“Sienna says you told her I don't own the penthouse,” he said.

“I told her the truth.”

He nodded once, then looked away. “She's furious with me.”

I almost asked whether her anger mattered more to him than mine. But I had asked variations of that question for months, whenever he missed an appointment or dismissed a concern about the baby. His actions had answered it often enough.

“That's between you and Sienna,” I said.

He looked at the room around us. “I really thought we'd made a decision about the apartment.”

“We made a plan to review documents. You made the decision to treat that as permission.”

For a moment, he seemed prepared to argue. Then he picked up his files and left. The elevator doors closed, and I realized I was listening for the sound of his return out of habit. It was a strange grief, missing a familiar presence without wanting that person back in the same room.

My friend arrived later with an overnight bag. We sat near the windows while the city brightened below us. She asked whether I was relieved. I told her yes, and then admitted that relief wasn't the only thing I felt. I was frightened by how quickly the future I'd imagined had become a matter for lawyers.

She didn't tell me everything would be fine. She asked what I wanted for the baby. I spoke about the nursery and the rocking chair, the mornings I hoped we would spend there, the need to make room for a child rather than an argument.

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Before bed, Maya sent a final note. Alexander had agreed to speak directly with the lender's review team. The meeting was scheduled for the following week. The lender wanted him to explain how he could promise a property interest that the owner had never granted.

I had wanted an answer to that question from the moment I heard his announcement. Now someone outside our marriage was going to ask it, too.