Now I know why.
He's waiting in the hallway.
Not hiding. Positioned near the water fountains, exactly where I'd have to pass to reach the judges' chambers.
His smile is pleasant and professional, but the bruising tells a different story. Four days since Cole broke his face and the damage is still visible—yellow-green discoloration, swelling not fully resolved, split lip healing but obvious. He's not hiding it. He's displaying it.
My feet stop before my brain registers why.
Cole materializes at my side. One second he was thirty feet back, and the next his hand presses warm against the small of my back while his body angles between me and Adrian.
Heat radiates through my blazer where he touches me, and I don't flinch. My body knows the difference now. Even in this fluorescent hellscape with my ex-husband twenty feet away, some part of me leans into Cole's palm.
When did I become someone who wants to be handled?
"Angelina." Adrian pushes off the wall and straightens his tie, his accent curling around my name like ownership. "A moment?"
"Walk away." Cole's voice comes out flat.
"I have every right to speak to the mother of my child." Adrian smiles, and the expression pulls at his split lip. "Surely we can be civilized about this, despite recent unpleasantness." His eyes flick to Cole on the last two words.
"You have no rights." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "You signed them away."
"Circumstances change." He reaches into his jacket.
Cole moves fast, his body blocking Adrian completely and one hand already rising. Adrian would have to go through him or retreat because there's no third option.
"Easy." Adrian's smile never wavers as he withdraws an envelope and holds it up like a white flag. "I was simply delivering this. Saves on courier fees."
He extends it toward me over Cole's shoulder. Cream-colored paper, legal weight, the Salvencian seal visible through the envelope's window.
My fingers feel numb as I take it.
"I told you I'd be seeing Francesca soon." Adrian's eyes hold mine. "One way or another."
He walks away at an unhurried pace, the victor's stride of a man who believes he's already won.
Cole doesn't move or blink. His body stays locked between me and Adrian's retreating back until my ex-husband rounds the corner and disappears.
The envelope trembles in my grip.
"Open it."
I do, though my hands won't steady no matter how hard I try. Legal letterhead swims in and out of focus and formal language blurs together until three words crystallize through the noise:
Petition for Custody.
Salvencian courts. Outside US jurisdiction. The Hague Convention will complicate enforcement, but if Adrian establishes a residency claim through his diplomatic status, if he proves I've denied reasonable access...
Chesca's laugh when Cole makes her pancakes. The way she says "Mamma" when she's sleepy, stretching it into three syllables. Her hand in mine walking to school. The weight of her against my chest when she has nightmares.
He wants to take all of it.
Stop. Breathe.
I can't. My chest won't expand properly and my lungs won't fill. The hallway feels too bright and too exposed.Sounds sharpen into footsteps and distant conversation and the mechanical hum of the building, then fade to static.
"Angelina." Cole's hand covers mine and steadies the paper. His palm is warm and callused and real. "Breathe."