Chapter 2 - THE SEVERANCE
By three weeks after her departure, Corin had learned the specific texture of Port Alder’s damp cold and how to hold a fine camel-hair brush steadily while morning sickness rolled through her stomach like sea waves.
Professor Sen’s client was a maritime historian named Julian Vance, a man whose quiet precision matched Corin’s own. The job involved restoring three eighteenth-century painted timber panels inside Beacon House, a gray stone estate overlooking the northern harbor. The work paid enough to keep her housed, fed, and enrolled in a private prenatal care clinic under her maiden name, Corin Vance—using her mother’s middle name to avoid initial public records sweeps.
Her attorney in the city, an unyielding woman named Evelyn Cross, handled the divorce filings. Corin’s instructions were simple: no alimony, no asset requests beyond her own restoration equipment and family heirlooms, but absolute, total preservation of her intellectual property.
"They're panicking," Evelyn told her over an encrypted video call. Corin sat at a small oak desk in the guesthouse, watching the ocean turn dark outside. "Harlon went through with the Larkspur Anniversary Gala, but without your signed release, he couldn't display the restored Swallow Collection. He tried to claim the pieces were away for routine maintenance, but several key investors noticed the absence. Marisol tried to launch a secondary line using your rough sketches, and I served Larkspur House with a cease-and-desist order yesterday afternoon."
"How did Harlon react?" Corin asked, her hand resting instinctively over her soft abdomen. She was twelve weeks pregnant now, her clothes beginning to fit snugly.
"He tried to pay me off to reveal your address," Evelyn replied with a cold smile. "I reminded him of bar association ethics and threatened him with a restraining order. He insists you’re having a nervous breakdown and that he only wants to 'help his wife through a fragile period.'"
"He wants the copyright," Corin said plainly. "He promised Marisol she would be the face of the collection."
"And what about your family?"
"Grandmother left three voicemails," Corin murmured. "She says the family name is being dragged through the press. She wants me to sign a temporary waiver for the sake of the Larkspur legacy."
"And your response?"
"Send them the photograph of Marisol wearing my mother's locket in the conservatory," Corin said. "Tell them that is my final statement regarding family legacy."
The next week was brutal. Harlon’s lawyer countered the divorce filing by claiming Corin had abandoned her duties to Larkspur House, attempting to freeze her personal bank accounts. But Corin had spent eight years carefully separating her restoration income from Harlon’s commercial accounts. When the judge reviewed the evidence—including Corin’s dated digital archive and Harlon's frantic text messages admitting he needed her signature to secure a major investment deal—the freeze request was denied.
Corin’s first proper ultrasound occurred on a rainy Tuesday morning.
The technician in Port Alder was named Dr. Aris, a calm woman who didn't ask questions about the empty chair beside the bed. She smeared the cool gel across Corin’s belly and pointed toward the dark monitor.
"There they are," Dr. Aris said gently. "Baby A and Baby B. Strong, clear heartbeats. Twelve weeks, two days. They’re growing beautifully, Miss Vance."
Corin stared at the screen, tears quiet and burning as they spilled onto her collar. Two tiny shapes, active and pulsing, completely oblivious to the ruined house four hours south. They were hers. Only hers.
"Do you want to know the sex?" Dr. Aris asked.
"No," Corin whispered, clutching the fresh thermal printouts tightly. "Not yet. I just want to know they're strong."
"They're fighters," the doctor promised.
That evening, Harlon attempted one last desperate gambit. He hired a private investigator who tracked Corin’s vehicle to a parking garage near the Port Alder waterfront.
Corin stepped out of the grocery store holding a bag of fresh fruit to find Harlon standing beside her car. He looked unkempt, his usual polished hair windblown, his expensive wool coat rumpled.
"Corin," he breathed, taking a step toward her, his hands raised in surrender. "Finally. My God, Corin, do you have any idea what you've put me through?"
Corin stopped three feet away. She felt no wave of heat, no sudden panic. Only a cold, absolute clarity.
"You're trespassing," she said smoothly.
"I’m your husband!" Harlon snapped, though he quickly checked his volume, looking around the quiet parking structure. "You disappeared over a stupid misunderstanding! Marisol was upset about the locket, I was comforting her—"
"I heard you, Harlon," Corin interrupted, her voice flat and perfectly steady. "I stood in the doorway of the east conservatory. I heard you tell her that she knew how to enjoy what I kept apologizing for wanting. I heard you plan to take my archive so I could be pushed into the workshop while Marisol took the spotlight."
Harlon’s face drained of color. The smooth, practiced lies died in his throat.
"Corin..." he stammered, stepping closer. "It was... it was business. Larkspur was sinking, the investors demanded a new image, Marisol was pushing me—"
"You ruined your own business," Corin said. "And you ruined your marriage. Do not come near me again. My attorney has the security footage from this parking structure right now. If you take one more step toward me, I will file criminal harassment charges before you reach the highway."
Harlon stared at her, his eyes falling for a brief second to her slightly rounded waist beneath her heavy coat, but he was too consumed by his own panic to realize what it meant.
"You're destroying everything we built!" he hissed.
"No," Corin said softly, unlocking her car door. "I am leaving the wreckage where you left it."
She drove away, leaving him standing beneath the dim parking lights.
May you like
Three weeks later, the divorce was finalized in absentia after Harlon’s legal team realized a public trial would expose his financial mismanagement of Larkspur House. Corin relinquished all claim to the Larkspur real estate in exchange for total, unassailable ownership of her restorer's archive and absolute independence.
She never told him about the envelope in her desk. She never mentioned the two heartbeats echoing in the quiet room overlooking the sea.
