The tall figure of Lysander was quickly soaked through by the water. Beside him, Shiloh remained perfectly dry.
Lysander pressed his thin lips together, his deep gaze locked on me—but he said nothing.
Piper noticed the way he was staring and let out a sharp, mocking laugh.
"What? Are you thinking of what crime you can accuse Aliyah of next? Listen, if you want revenge, come for me. Don't even think of threatening her again."
When Lysander first mentioned divorce, saying he wanted to "give Georgette a home," I refused to sign. I clung to the marriage, unwilling to hand over our child.
Back then, some part of me still believed in him. I thought that once the thrill of Georgette wore off, he'd come back—return to his senses and to the family we built.
But I was far too naïve.
When Piper found out he was not only divorcing me but also fighting for full custody, she lost control.
She stormed into his law firm, found Georgette, and slapped her several times in front of everyone, calling her a homewrecker.
The result?
Lysander and Georgette turned around and sued Piper for intentional injury and defamation.
Lysander was a renowned divorce lawyer.
He knew exactly how to protect himself, how to make sure not a single piece of evidence could be used against him.
Everything I knew about his affair was what he allowed me to know.
When I hired a lawyer to defend Piper, they told me, "If you can show proof of his infidelity, we can counterattack."
But I had nothing.
He was too careful. His phone wallpaper was a family photo of me and the child; all his chat logs with Georgette looked strictly professional.
Whenever they met, there were always others present. I couldn't find a single trace.
In desperation, I knelt before him, crying and begging for Piper's sake. He didn't even flinch. His eyes were as cold as stone as he said, "You only have one choice. Agree to the divorce and give up custody—or I'll make sure Piper pays dearly for what she did."
That threat haunted me for weeks.
I couldn't sleep without medication.
But what I didn't expect was that, on the day of the divorce trial, he'd use those very things against me.
He presented the video of me taking sleeping pills and kneeling before him, sobbing.
He told the court I was emotionally unstable, a stay-at-home mother incapable of raising a child.
I had a severe speech disorder, and under stress, it worsened dramatically.
Standing there on the defendant's stand, I tried to explain, but all I met were puzzled, pitying, and impatient stares.
When I opened my mouth to speak, no sound came out. Only the silent motion of lips and the tremor of fear.
My gaze pleaded with him for mercy. But he looked away, heartless. Then he pulled out the notebook he had once given me—the one he told me to use whenever I couldn't speak.
Holding it up, he struck again while I was speechless. His voice was calm and deliberate. "Aliyah is a mute. This is the notebook we used to communicate. She can't even manage basic speech—how could she possibly be fit to raise a child?"
No one knows how to destroy you better than the person who once loved you most.
He struck precisely where it hurt the most, again and again, without mercy.
And I—I couldn't even utter a word in my own defense.
I wanted to scream I'm not mute! But time ticked away, and no sound left my lips. In the end, I lost completely.
When I walked out of the courtroom with the judgment in my hands, I saw them approaching.
Lysander and Georgette, holding our one-year-old child.
Georgette's face glowed with triumph. She smiled sweetly, her tone gentle and condescending. "Aliyah, don't worry. Leave the child to me. I'll treat him like my own and raise him well with Lysander."
