The morning of the preliminary custody hearing was shrouded in a dull, oppressive New York haze. I felt less like a wife and more like an exhibit. Alexander had insisted I wear a specific, tailored gray dress—modest, elegant, and completely unremarkable—to project an image of stability and quiet devotion. My hair was pulled back simply. Every detail, from the lack of jewelry to the minimal makeup, was designed to scream: reliable, predictable, motherly.

He came to the dressing room to ...