Marcus Chen's office was all mahogany and leather. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Fifth Avenue. He sat behind a desk the size of my first apartment and looked at me like I was a problem he'd already solved.
"Mrs. Scott." He didn't stand. "I've reviewed the evidence your attorney submitted. I have to say, I'm concerned about the legality of your collection methods."
Gracelyn leaned back in her chair beside me. "New York is a one-party consent state, Mr. Chen. Mrs. Scott was a party to every conversation she recorded."
"The financial documents—"
"Were obtained from joint accounts to which she had legal access." Gracelyn's voice stayed flat. Bored, almost. "The forged statement came through a properly filed FOIL request. Chain of custody is documented. You know this."
Marcus Chen smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "We'll see what the judge thinks."
He filed six motions over the next two weeks. Motion to suppress the recordings. Motion to exclude financial evidence. Motion to dismiss based on improper collection. Motion to seal the forged document. Each one landed on Gracelyn's desk with the weight of expensive legal strategy behind it.
She dismantled them one by one.
I sat in the gallery during the preliminary hearing and watched her work. She stood at the podium with a single folder and walked the judge through New York's one-party consent statute. Cited three precedent cases without looking at notes. Presented the documentation chain for the forged statement—clerk's stamp, file number, request form with my signature, all dated and verified.
Marcus Chen argued for forty minutes. Gracelyn responded in eight.
The judge denied every motion.
I watched Philip's face from across the courtroom. He sat perfectly still. His jaw tight. Marcus Chen leaned over and whispered something. Philip nodded once. Sharp.
Outside the courthouse, Gracelyn stopped on the steps. "He'll try something else. They always do. But the evidence is solid. It's going to trial."
I nodded. Ran my thumb along my wrist.
"Go home," she said. "Rest. This part is over."
But I didn't go back to Diana's apartment. I took the subway to Manhattan.
---
The real estate agent met me at the apartment with paperwork and a tight smile. "Are you sure? This market—you could get more if you waited."
"I'm sure."
She walked me through the rooms one last time. The kitchen where I'd made a thousand cups of coffee Philip never thanked me for. The living room where Mrs. Scott had declared Azalea's baby a blessing. The bedroom where I'd injected myself a thousand times while Philip slept.
I signed the papers in the kitchen. Didn't look at the numbers. Just signed.
"The buyers want to close in thirty days," the agent said. "Will that work?"
"Yes."
I left everything. The furniture Mrs. Scott had chosen. The dishes I'd registered for at our wedding. The bed. All of it. I walked out with my purse and the leather folder and nothing else.
The subway back to Brooklyn was crowded. I stood by the doors and watched the tunnel lights flash past. When I got off at my stop, I walked six blocks to a building I'd seen listed online. Ground floor. Corner unit. Big windows.
The landlord was waiting. "You're the designer?"
"Yes."
He showed me the space. Empty. Concrete floors. White walls that needed paint. A bathroom in the back. "It's raw. But the light's good."
I walked to the windows. Afternoon sun poured through. I could see the street. People walking. A coffee shop across the way. Life happening.
"I'll take it," I said.
He blinked. "Don't you want to—"
"I'll take it."
I signed the lease standing at the window. My hand didn't shake. When I wrote my business name in the tenant line—a name connected to nothing I'd been before—something in my chest loosened. Just slightly.
The landlord handed me the keys. "Good luck."
I stood alone in the empty studio after he left. The sun moved across the floor. I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the space. Sent it to Diana with two words: *It's mine.*
Her response came immediately: *Proud of you.*
I sat down on the floor. Put my back against the wall. Looked at the empty room that would become whatever I built it into.
For the first time in three years, I smiled.
---
Sophie Hartman called on a Thursday. "I saw your website. I'm looking for someone to design a nursery."
I met her at a café in Park Slope. She was seven months pregnant. Glowing in that way people always said pregnant women glowed. I'd never glowed. I'd just bruised.
"We bought a brownstone," Sophie said. "The nursery is on the second floor. Good light. But I don't know where to start. Everything feels—" She paused. Smiled. "Overwhelming."
"I can help," I said.
She hired me on the spot.
I worked on her nursery for three days straight. Measured the room. Sourced furniture. Chose paint colors—soft gray, warm white, nothing harsh. I positioned the crib away from the window. Put the rocking chair where the morning light would fall. Hung blackout curtains that looked delicate but blocked every photon.
I worked through the nights. Didn't sleep. Couldn't. Every decision felt like I was building something I'd never have. A room for a child who would be loved. Wanted. Safe.
On the third morning, I stood in the finished nursery at dawn. The light came through the curtains soft and golden. The rocking chair sat exactly where a mother would want it. The mobile above the crib turned slowly in the air current from the heating vent.
I let myself feel it. Thirty seconds. The grief. The loss. The two children I would never rock to sleep in a room like this.
Then I locked it away. Picked up my bag. Left.
Sophie called that afternoon. "Leila. It's perfect. It's exactly—" Her voice broke. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," I said.
She posted photos online. Tagged my business. By the end of the week, I had three more inquiries.
I sat in my studio and looked at the messages. Then I opened my notebook and started sketching the next room.
