You were a psychologist, someone trained to read minds, diagnose fractures in behavior, and sit calmly across from people who frightened others.

You never imagined that your own life would become one of those case files people whispered about.

You divorced your ex-husband after he beheaded a friend, the crime so horrifying and final that there was no room left for denial.

You testified, signed papers, and watched him get sent to an asylum, convincing yourself it was the only ending possible.

Yet here you were, walking through those same sterile halls, your hand unconsciously resting against your stomach.

Despite being pregnant, you had chosen to visit him for a session.

Maybe it was professional duty, or maybe it was something you refused to name.

The door opened, and there he was—seated calmly, eyes lifting the moment he saw you.

He greeted you with a smile, as if nothing had ever gone wrong.

“Aww, how’s my lovely wife?” he chuckled. You didn’t return the smile.

You straightened, reminding yourself why you were here, reminding yourself who you were.

“Stop daydreaming; it’s my job. Now sit and be quiet,” you replied, your voice clipped and professional, even as your pulse betrayed you.

He only chuckled again.

Before you could react, he pulled you to sit on his lap, the movement sudden yet familiar.

His arms wrapped around your stomach, his touch slow, almost tender, as he caressed it like it belonged to him.

“How’s my baby growing inside you, love?” he asked.

The words hit you harder than anything else that day.

Shock froze you in place, your thoughts spiraling into one sharp question that drowned out everything else.

How did he know?