Chapter 2
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t throw the vase on the entry table, even though every nerve in my body screamed to do it.
I just stood there, Maisie’s warm weight against my chest, her tiny hand fisting the collar of my hospital gown, and stared at the three of them like they were bugs I’d found crawling in my fridge.
Vivian was the first to break the silence. She sighed, loud and dramatic, and brushed a non-existent lint off her tailored slacks.
“Close your mouth, Lila. You look like a fish out of water. Grant has needs. You’ve been… unavailable, shall we say, for months now. A man like him can’t be expected to live like a monk just because you decided to grow a human inside you.”
Sienna had the decency to look a little sheepish, but it lasted about two seconds. Then she straightened her shoulders—my shoulders, in my robe—and smirked.
“Your husband is very good at what he does, Lila. In the boardroom. And in the bedroom.”
Grant finally spoke. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t even look at Maisie. He just ran a hand through his hair, the same gesture he used when he thought I was being unreasonable about forgetting to pick up his dry cleaning.
“Look, this isn’t how I wanted you to find out. But you’ve been so distant since you got pregnant. All you talk about is onesies and doctor’s appointments. Sienna gets me. She’s ambitious. She’s on my level.”
I shifted Maisie higher on my chest. She made a soft, grunting noise, and I kissed the top of her fuzzy head. The smell of her baby shampoo was the only thing keeping me from collapsing right there on the marble floor.
“On your level,” I repeated, my voice quieter than I expected. “Grant, you haven’t worked a full week in three months. You play golf four days a week. You take ‘business trips’ to Miami that last ten days and produce zero new clients. Sienna’s ‘ambition’ is charging twelve thousand dollars a month for social media posts that get two hundred likes.”
Vivian’s face turned purple. “How dare you? My son built that company from nothing! You were a barista when he met you, for God’s sake. You should be on your knees thanking him for pulling you out of that trailer park you called an apartment.”
I almost laughed.
The barista story was true—for a year. My father had made me live on a minimum wage budget, no credit cards, no help, after I graduated college. He said if I was going to run his empire one day, I needed to know what it felt like to choose between groceries and gas. I’d met Grant at that coffee shop. He’d bought a latte every morning just to talk to me. He’d told me he loved that I was “simple,” that I didn’t care about money.
He’d had no idea the “old friend” who’d given me the down payment for our first house was my dad.
He’d had no idea the “small business loan” he’d used to start his company came from a fund my dad controlled, with fine print that said every asset purchased with that money belonged to Ashford Holdings—my holding company.
I didn’t tell them that yet.
I just turned on my heel, ignoring their shouts behind me, and walked to the kitchen. I put Maisie in her bouncer on the counter, careful not to pull my stitches, and made her a bottle. My hands shook so bad I spilled formula all over the marble.
When the bottle was ready, I sat down at the kitchen table and fed her. She ate like she hadn’t eaten in days, her eyes closed, one tiny hand resting on mine.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the contact I hadn’t called in two years.
Eli Carter. My dad’s oldest friend. Our family lawyer. The only person besides my dad who knew the full truth about the holding company.
He answered on the first ring.
“Lila? Is everything okay? Your dad would kill me if—”
“Eli,” I said, my voice steady now. “I need you at my house in an hour. Bring the Ashford Holdings file. All of it. And bring a process server if you can find one on a Saturday.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then his voice went hard, the same tone he used when he was about to ruin someone’s life.
May you like
“Did he hurt you?”
“Not physically.” I looked at Maisie, her cheeks full of milk, and thought of the nineteen missed calls. Of lying on that operating table, alone, scared they were going to cut my baby out of me and I’d never get to hold her. “But he hurt her. And I’m going to take everything he ever thought was his.”
