“Yes… maybe.”
And I saw how, behind his “serene” gaze, something tightened like a spring of suppressed emotion.
That afternoon, as soon as Diego left “to teach,” I didn’t go to yoga. I went to a discreet office in the Lafayette neighborhood. A lawyer recommended by a friend from my first marriage. A man with gray hair, a calm gaze.
I told him everything. I showed him the results. I showed him the bottle, the photos I took of the liquid and the small amber bottle when Diego wasn't looking, the schedule of the "doses," my symptoms, my medical history.
The lawyer wasn't shocked. That frightened me and relieved me at the same time.
"This has two paths," he said. "Criminal: administering substances without consent, possible attempted aggravated assault… depending on the ruling. And civil/property protection: immediate safeguards. Change access, accounts, will, and protective measures."
He handed me a short, clear list.
"First: you will never again drink anything he gives you. Second: we're going to document everything. Third: we're going to anticipate this. Because if this man is clever, he's going to try to make you look… incapable."
"I'm going to take action." I left the office with a strange feeling: for the first time since my first husband died, I was making decisions without asking permission.
That night, Diego returned with a folder in his hand.
