My husband choked our newborn until the baby turned blue whenever our child cried for milk, then turned on me and beat me until my face was covered in bruises and I collapsed,

One month later.

My apartment in the quiet, tree-lined suburban district smelled of baby powder, fresh chamomile tea, and warm vanilla.

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the colorful play mat where Leo was tummy-time rolling. His neck was completely healed, his skin soft and healthy, his dark eyes bright as he reached for a plush blue elephant.

He weighed ten pounds now. Healthy, thriving, and safe.

My ribs had healed, though a faint shadow remained beneath my left eye—a permanent reminder of the night I decided to stop being a victim.

Victoria sat at my kitchen island, typing away on her tablet. "Julian's public defender tried to negotiate a plea deal yesterday afternoon."

I set down two mugs of coffee. "What are they offering?"

"He wants to plead guilty to felony battery in exchange for dropping the attempted murder charge," Victoria said, looking up. "Five years with eligibility for parole in two. Plus, he wants you to waive all rights to his remaining pension fund."

I let out a soft laugh. "Tell them no."

"I already did," Victoria smiled. "I told them we’re going to trial. The prosecutor is confident we get a fifteen-year sentence without parole."

Suddenly, my doorbell chimed.

I frowned, looking at the security monitor mounted by the door. No one was scheduled to come over.

The monitor displayed the image of a young man wearing a courier uniform, holding a large arrangement of white roses and a thick manila envelope.

"Courier," Victoria noted, coming over to stand behind me. "Be careful."

I opened the door, keeping the safety chain engaged. "Can I help you?"

"Delivery for Sarah Mercer," the courier said politely. "Requires a signature."

I unlatched the chain and accepted the manila envelope, refusing the flowers. "Who sent this?"

"A legal service firm downtown," he replied, handing me an electronic signature pad.

Once the courier left, I pulled open the top flap of the manila envelope. Inside was a stack of legal documents printed on heavy parchment paper, stamped with an urgent court seal.

I scanned the top page, and my blood ran cold.

NOTICE OF INTENT TO CALL WITNESS: PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION OF SARAH MERCER.

"What is it?" Victoria asked, taking the papers from my hands.

Her eyes moved rapidly across the lines, her jaw tightening with every second. "That slippery little worm."

"What did he do?" I asked, my heart pounding in my throat.

"Julian’s public defender filed a motion claiming that six months before you got pregnant, you attended three counseling sessions for mild anxiety," Victoria explained, her voice dropping into a dangerous register. "They are attempting to subpoena your private medical records from Dr. Karen Hayes, claiming you have a history of violent hallucinations and self-harm."

"That’s insane!" I shouted. "I went to grief counseling when my father died! That was three years ago!"

"It doesn't matter to them," Victoria said, her mind working at lightspeed. "They don't need to win the claim. They just need to create enough smoke around your mental stability to make a jury doubt your testimony about the 911 call. They want to argue that you attacked Julian, bruised yourself, and choked the baby during a psychotic episode."

I sat down on the sofa, clutching my hands together to stop them from shaking. "Dr. Hayes would never release my records. They’re protected by HIPAA."

"Unless a judge signs a court order," Victoria warned. "And Julian’s old friend from law school, Judge Richard Vance—no relation to me—is presiding over the pre-trial discovery motions tomorrow morning."

I looked over at Leo, who was happily babbling on his play mat.

"They think they can play dirty?" I whispered, my fear suddenly hardening into pure, unadulterated rage. "Victoria... do you remember that private cloud drive I downloaded from Julian's computer?"

Victoria looked at me, her eyes widening. "What else was on there?"

"Julian didn't just hide money," I said, a cold smile spreading across my face. "He kept audio recordings of his phone calls. He liked to record people so he could blackmail them later."