“You signed the waiver, but you crossed out the custody clause,” Gwendolyn said, her high-pitched, babyish tone echoing off the stone walls.
“Russell, she is trying to ruin the public launch, she wants to blackmail us with the custody.”
“Shut up, Gwendolyn,” I said, keeping my voice low and deliberate.
Russell checked his gold watch with a quick flick of his wrist, his breathing fast and shallow.
“I built this company with my own sweat, Heather,” Russell said, his voice sharp and fast as he leaned over the table.
He checked his gold watch again, the polished links catching the dim light of the cellar bulb.
“The board is voting on the final prospectus tomorrow afternoon, and I will not let a messy custody battle delay the listing,” he added, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the blue folder.
“Your company is built on a foundation of sand, Russell,” I said, my voice remaining soft and even.
“You know nothing about my business,” he snapped, interrupting me before I could finish the sentence.
Gwendolyn stepped closer to him, her fingers twisting a lock of blonde hair into a tight, nervous knot as she stared at the blacked-out custody clause.
“She is just jealous, Russell,” Gwendolyn said, her high-pitched, babyish tone grating against the cold air of the basement.
“She knows that once we are married, she will never be allowed back on this estate.”
Phoebe shrank back against my shoulder, hiding her face behind the plush rabbit’s ears as the shouting grew louder.
“This house belongs to my daughter as much as it does to you,” I said, keeping my gaze locked on Russell.
“Not anymore,” Russell said, a cold sneer forming on his lips as he checked his watch for the third time.
“By seven o’clock, the security team will have instructions to escort you to the outer gates.”
“We will not be here at seven,” I said.
Gwendolyn let out a soft, mocking laugh, her fingers releasing the lock of hair only to smooth down the front of her cream silk blouse.
“You really think you can survive out there on your own?” Gwendolyn asked, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.
“Look at you, Heather. You are going to walk out into that downpour with no money, no home, and a bleeding child.”
“The rain is turning into a storm, and you do not even have a coat for her,” she added, glancing toward the narrow window.
“I do not need your pity, Gwendolyn,” I said.
Gwendolyn stepped closer, her eyes flashing with a sudden, vicious triumph as she leaned in toward me.
“It must be so hard to realize you are completely disposable, dear,” she whispered.
My arm moved before I had time to think about the consequences.
The sound of my palm striking Gwendolyn’s cheek was loud and flat, echoing off the concrete walls of the cellar.
Gwendolyn gasped, her head jerking backward as her hand flew to her reddened face, her eyes wide with genuine shock.
“Russell!” she shrieked, backing away until she bumped into the edge of the pine table.
Russell stared at me, his mouth slightly open, his hands dropping to his sides in absolute silence.
The sting on my palm was the first real warmth I had felt in years.
My hand was still burning when I pushed open the heavy kitchen door and stepped out into the grey, freezing downpour.
Phoebe’s small weight was heavy in my arms, her wet hair plastering against my neck as the wind caught us.
The gravel of the Lake Forest courtyard cut into my bare soles, cold and slick with the November mud.
Behind us, the heavy oak doors of the main house swung open so hard the iron ring struck the stone wall.
Russell stood on the portico, his silk tie crooked, his gold watch catching the dim light as he waved a hand at the two estate security guards standing by the garage.
“Do not touch them,” Russell shouted, his voice cracking under the roar of the rain.
“She wants to walk, let her walk. Nobody helps her. Not one of you.”
The guards looked at the ground, their hands folded over their belts, motionless in their black uniforms.
“You will be back by noon,” Russell called out, his boots taking two sharp steps onto the wet stone before he stopped.
“You have no shoes, Heather. You have no purse. Where are you going to go?”
I did not look back to see him check his watch again.
The pink silk ribbon that had bound my wrists was still tangled in the sleeve of my coat, a wet string of five-dollar silk.
The iron gates at the end of the long driveway loomed black and closed against the grey public road ahead.
Phoebe shivered, her head resting against my shoulder, the damp cloth I had tied around her forehead already dark with rainwater and a faint smear of pink.
The sound of heavy engines hummed through the wet air before the headlights even cleared the curve.
Three identical black, armored SUVs rounded the bend, their tires throwing up wide fans of grey water as they pulled to a stop directly across the gates.
The passenger door of the lead vehicle pushed open, and a tall man in a dark grey suit stepped down into the puddles.
It was Grant.
He did not look at the security cameras mounted on the brick pillars, nor did he look back toward the main house.
He walked straight to us, his boots clicking heavily, and unbuttoned his thick wool coat as he approached.
Without a word, he draped the warm, heavy wool over my shoulders, tucking Phoebe inside the folds of the fabric.
His gravelly voice was low, but it cut through the sound of the rain.
“Heather, let us go home.”
He opened the rear door of the cabin, the warm leather smelling of peppermint and clean wool.
