I slipped back home on my lunch break to check on my sick husband. I tried not to make a sound, but his voice carried down the hall—low, urgent, nothing like the weak tone he’d been putting on for me…

I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on the supervisor. “If he tells you my signature is on anything,” I said quietly, “I want that documented. Because it isn’t. And if it appears to be, it’s forged or applied digitally.”

The supervisor’s expression tightened. “Mr. Caldwell,” she said, voice colder, “do you understand the seriousness of that accusation?”

Ethan’s face shifted—anger, panic, then forced charm. “This is a marital dispute,” he said quickly. “She’s upset. She’s—”

The supervisor held up a hand. “Stop,” she said. “This is not relationship counseling. This is legal recordkeeping.”

Ethan swallowed.

The supervisor turned to her computer. “I am marking this transfer request as contested,” she said. “No filing will occur today. Additionally, I recommend you both seek counsel immediately.”

Ethan’s jaw clenched. “So you’re just—refusing?”

“I’m protecting the integrity of the record,” she replied. “And your spouse’s filed notice requires this review.”

Ethan stared at me like he couldn’t believe I’d done it.

I held his gaze and let him see something he hadn’t planned for: calm.

Not pleading. Not screaming.

Calm.

When we walked out of the office, Ethan’s phone buzzed. He glanced down, and I saw the name on the screen.

J. Morgan.

He answered without thinking, then remembered where he was and lowered his voice.

“It’s not happening,” he hissed.

I stopped walking.

Because I realized something with sudden clarity:

She was here.

He wouldn’t answer her call right now unless he had to.

Unless she was close enough to demand an update.

Ethan turned slightly away from me, voice tight. “I don’t care what you want,” he snapped into the phone. “She filed a notice. We got flagged. I told you—”

A woman’s voice rose through the speaker, sharp enough that I could hear it even at a distance.

“You promised me Friday,” she said. “I’m literally downstairs.”

Downstairs.

My stomach dropped again.

The county office lobby was one big room with multiple lines, and the stairwell opened near the front entrance.

I turned slowly, scanning faces.