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For the next three days, I locked myself in my apartment, preparing.
Not legal arguments—Arthur would handle those. I was preparing something more personal: timelines, photos, email records, even medical reports.
I found a photo from two years ago: Julian and me on the beach in the Hamptons. He had his arm around my shoulder, and I was holding a pregnancy test—from the first IVF cycle. It was positive. We were smiling like children in that photo.
A week later, I miscarried.
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