The silence in the foyer was absolute, broken only by the faint, persistent hum of the security monitor. Robin’s hand was still on April’s stomach, a hot, heavy weight through the thin silk of her dress. His fingers splayed possessively over the slight curve, a claim made in the echo of their interrupted joining. The heat of his body against her back was a cage and a refuge, holding her upright as she trembled, half-dressed and exposed to the ghost on the other side of the door.

Paula’s gaze, through the grainy black-and-white screen, didn’t move from that point of contact. It didn’t flicker to Robin’s pale, shocked face or April’s wide, humiliated eyes. It stayed fixed on his hand. Her expression didn’t fracture with pain. It settled. The lines of her face, familiar even in pixelated distortion, smoothed into a cold, knowing pity.

“Robin,” April whispered, her voice raw from crying out moments before.

He didn’t seem to hear her. He was staring at the monitor, at his ex-wife’s unwavering stare. The power in the room didn’t reverse; it solidified, calcifying around Robin’s performative grip. In this moment, April understood with a sickening clarity: she wasn’t the other woman. She was the prize being flaunted. The living proof of his moving on, displayed in disheveled, pregnant silence.

“Let her in,” April said, the words tasting like ash.

Robin finally blinked. He looked down at her, his eyes wild. “What?”

“You heard me. Let her in.” She shifted, trying to pull away from his touch, but his hand tightened, holding her fast against him. The movement pressed her back against the hard ridge of him, still straining against his zipper, a brutal reminder of what had been seconds from completion. A shudder ran through her.

“You don’t understand,” he hissed, his mouth close to her ear. “She has a restraining order. She can’t be here.”

“She is here.” April’s voice was flat. “And she’s looking at your hand on me. Let her in, or I will scream this house down until she calls the police herself.”

His breath caught. The threat, delivered in her new, hollow tone, landed. He slowly, reluctantly, removed his hand from her stomach. The spot felt instantly cold. He ran that same hand through his hair, a gesture of utter defeat, before he reached for the intercom button.

“Paula.” His voice was a cracked thing, stripped of all its famous smoothness.

The figure on the screen didn’t move. “Open the door, Robin.”

He hit the buzzer. The electronic lock disengaged with a loud, final clunk.

April stepped away from him, her legs unsteady. She hastily pulled her panties back up under her dress, the silk damp and clinging. She couldn’t meet his eyes. She focused on straightening the fabric, on becoming presentable for the audience he had summoned into their war. The vulnerability was a physical ache, deeper than the interrupted climax. She was now the permanent battlefield between his past and his future, and the first shot had just been fired.

The door opened.

Paula Patton stood in the threshold. She was dressed simply in jeans and a cream-colored sweater, her hair pulled back. She looked nothing like the vengeful ex-wife of tabloid fantasy. She looked tired, and clean, and profoundly real. Her eyes swept past Robin, who stood frozen like a guilty child, and landed on April.

That gaze was a physical touch. It took in April’s flushed skin, her swollen lips, the way her dress was twisted. It saw everything.

“April,” Paula said, and her voice was calm, almost gentle. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

The apology, so measured and directed at her, was worse than any accusation. April could only nod, a tight, jerky motion.

Paula’s eyes returned to Robin. The pity was still there, but now it was edged with something harder. “We need to talk. It’s about the settlement. There’s a problem.”

“Now?” Robin’s laugh was brittle. “You show up here, now, for paperwork?”

“It’s not paperwork.” Paula’s gaze flicked to April’s stomach again, then back to his face. “It’s about paternity.”