Chapter 4 - The Price of Freedom| I didn't return to the apartment immediately.
Instead, I walked through Queens for nearly an hour, checking shop windows for anyone following me. I stopped at a pharmacy, bought a bottle of water I didn't need, and sat on a bench across from a public school.
The city continued around me. Children shouted on the playground. A delivery driver argued with a parking officer. Somewhere, a dog barked at a pigeon.
Ordinary life felt like a country I had been exiled from.
At four, I finally went upstairs to my studio.
The door was locked. The window was intact. Nothing appeared to have been touched.
Still, I checked beneath the bed, behind the shower curtain, and inside the closet.
Then I called a lawyer whose name appeared on the legal aid website.
Her name was Rachel Kim. She listened without interrupting while I explained the photograph, Margaret's warning, and Victor's business card.
When I finished, she asked a question I hadn't expected.
“Do you have access to any of your husband's financial accounts?”
“No.”
“Any documents, emails, or messages from the marriage that might connect you to his businesses?”
“I never handled his business.”
“That's good. Don't try to investigate him by breaking into anything. Don't accept documents from strangers without preserving how you received them. And don't meet Victor Moretti alone.”
I looked at the card on my table.
“Can you help me find out what happened to my mother?”
“I can help you document what you know. Whether we can establish what happened is another question.”
For the first time since leaving the estate, someone had offered me something more useful than a promise.
A plan.
Rachel explained that I should preserve the photograph and messages, keep a record of every contact, and avoid making accusations publicly until we had evidence. She also helped me understand that leaving a marriage did not mean surrendering any rights I might have to property or financial support.
I had never thought of myself as a woman who needed a lawyer.
I had thought of myself as a woman who needed her husband to love her.
That evening, I received an email from a hospital billing department. During our marriage, Adrian's office had managed the insurance policy that covered my treatment for a thyroid condition. The policy had been changed the previous month, and the hospital wanted clarification about my coverage.
The email was not a threat. It was an ordinary administrative notice.
But it reminded me how much of my life had been tied to Adrian's decisions.
I called the insurer and began the process of establishing independent coverage.
Then I wrote a letter to the Romano household attorney, formally requesting copies of the documents I was entitled to receive concerning my marriage and personal property.
I signed it Sophia Bennett.
Not Sophia Romano.
The next morning, a black sedan stopped outside the laundromat.
I watched from the window as Adrian stepped out.
He wore a dark coat and no tie. His hair was slightly disordered, and there were shadows beneath his eyes.
He looked like a man who had not slept.
He climbed the stairs and knocked.
I remained silent.
“Sophia,” he called. “Open the door.”
I stood on the other side of it, my hand hovering near the lock.
“I'm not here to fight.”
“You could have said that before.”
“I didn't know you were leaving.”
“You knew I was unhappy.”
He was quiet.
Then he said something I had waited three years to hear.
“I was wrong about dinner.”
I closed my eyes.
It was the apology I had once imagined receiving, delivered too late to repair what it had cost.
“You were wrong about more than dinner,” I said through the door.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He took a breath.
“Victor has been asking questions about you. I wanted to make sure you're safe.”
The mention of Victor chilled me.
“Why would Victor care where I live?”
No answer came.
I opened the door only as far as the security chain allowed.
Adrian looked at me, and for a moment I saw the man who had once helped me carry boxes at a charity event.
Then his eyes fell on the legal aid brochure in my hand.
His expression hardened.
“You hired a lawyer.”
“Yes.”
“Against me?”
“For myself.”
He stared at me as if those words were more offensive than anything I had said at dinner.
Then he stepped back.
“Whatever Victor told you, don't trust him.”
“Why should I trust you?”
He had no answer.
As he turned toward the stairs, he paused.
“Your mother wasn't the person you think she was.”
The door slipped from my fingers.
“What does that mean?”
Adrian looked back.
“It means you need to understand why she was investigating my family before you decide who to blame.”
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Then he left me with a question that made the room feel suddenly much smaller.
What if the truth about my mother was not the truth I wanted to hear?
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