Six months after the divorce, my ex-husband suddenly called to invite me to his wedding. I told him, “I just had a baby. I’m not going anywhere.” Thirty minutes later, he ran into my hospital room in complete panic.

The Westchester County courthouse was besieged by reporters and camera crews on Monday morning. Flashbulbs popped blindingly as law enforcement officers escorted Vanessa Sterling up the marbled stone steps.

She looked unrecognizable. Gone was the pristine, untouchable socialite in the designer gown. In her place stood a disheveled woman in a gray jumpsuit, her hair unbrushed, her eyes darting frantically away from the flashing cameras as handcuffs clicked tightly around her wrists.

From the safety of the televised broadcast playing on the living room screen, I watched her fall from grace with a profound sense of closure rather than triumph.

“She’s getting her day in court,” Aaron said quietly, standing behind my chair with a cup of coffee in his hand. “And she’s going to face every single consequence.”

“Do you think she’ll try to drag you down with her?” I asked, looking up at him.

“She already tried,” Aaron replied, handing me a legal memo. “Her defense attorney submitted a statement claiming I was aware of the pregnancy termination rumors and tacitly approved them. But Detective Vance pulled our call logs, emails, and the burner phone data. The court knows I was kept in the dark just as much as you were.”

The doorbell chimed softly through the estate.

Aaron frowned, walking over to the foyer monitor. A federal marshal and two local deputies stood outside the security gate.

“Stay here,” Aaron told me, walking to the intercom.

Ten minutes later, Aaron returned to the living room holding a sealed envelope bearing the court’s official crest. His face was pale, his expression unreadable.

“What is it?” I asked, setting my coffee down.

“It’s a subpoena,” Aaron said, his voice tight. “Not for me. For you.”

My heart skipped a beat. “A subpoena? What could they possibly need from me?”

“Vanessa’s defense team is requesting a formal deposition,” Aaron explained, sitting down on the edge of the sofa. “They’re claiming insanity. They want to argue that Vanessa suffered from a dissociative psychological break induced by stress, and they’re calling you as a witness to testify about her mental state during her hospital outburst.”

“They want me to sit in a room with her?” I asked, my voice rising in disbelief. “After everything she tried to do?”

“You don't have to go,” Aaron said fiercely. “My lawyers can file a motion to quash the subpoena based on your postpartum recovery and your status as a victim of harassment.”

“No,” I said, standing up, a sudden surge of strength taking over. “If I hide from her, she wins. If I let her lawyers paint her as some tragic, misunderstood victim of stress, she might actually get a lighter sentence.”