Z

I moved into my mother's house in Henderson on a Thursday morning.

Not because Vincent couldn't find it.

He knew exactly where my mother lived.

I went there because I wasn't running.

That distinction mattered to me.

I didn't want to disappear with our daughter and spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I wanted Vincent to understand that I had left him openly, legally, and deliberately.

My attorney, Rebecca Sloan, had been very clear.

“You aren't kidnapping anyone. You are the child's mother, there is currently no custody order, and you're remaining in the same county. But document everything.”

Documentation had become my new religion.

At 2:13 that afternoon, I wrote down the time our daughter finished her bottle.

At 3:05, I recorded her temperature.

At 4:20, I noted the medication I took for the lingering pain from surgery.

At 6:47, I wrote:

Vincent has still not called.

The strange thing was that it hurt less than I expected.

Maybe because the worst pain had already happened.

There is something uniquely humiliating about begging the person who promised to love you to behave as though you matter.

Once I stopped begging, the humiliation disappeared.

My mother, Helen Bennett, found me sitting on the couch with the baby asleep against my chest.

“You need to rest.”

“I am resting.”

“You're building a spreadsheet.”

“That can be restful.”

She looked at my laptop.

“You've color-coded his absences.”

“I like organization.”

“Claire.”

I finally looked up.

Her face softened.

“You almost died.”

I swallowed.

“I know.”

“No. I don't think you do.”

She sat beside me carefully.

“You've been handling lawyers and baby bottles and moving trucks because if you stay busy enough, you don't have to think about the fact that you were bleeding on an operating table while your husband told me he couldn't leave another woman.”

My eyes burned.

“I can't fall apart.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I have a baby.”

“That baby has a grandmother.”

A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it.

My mother reached over and took the laptop from my hands.

For the first time since leaving the penthouse, I let myself cry.

Not prettily.

Not quietly.

I cried until my incision hurt and my mother ordered me to stop trying to speak.

Our daughter slept through almost all of it.

Her name was Sophia.

Vincent and I had chosen it together four months earlier.

At the time, I'd believed naming a child together meant we were building something permanent.

Now Sophia was asleep under my chin while the marriage that created her was being dismantled by attorneys.

The doorbell rang at 8:16.

My mother looked through the security camera.

Her mouth tightened.

“He's here.”

I knew before she said his name.

My entire body reacted.

“Vincent.”

He stood outside in a black suit without a tie.

Alone.

No security detail.

No driver.

No roses.

That almost made me laugh.

Mom looked at me.

“You don't have to see him.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“Because eventually I'm going to have to learn how to talk to him without falling apart.”

I placed Sophia in the bassinet.

Then I walked to the door.

Vincent's face changed when he saw me.

For a second, the ruthless man disappeared.

He looked exhausted.

“You're here.”

“You knew I would be.”

“I didn't.”

I folded my arms.

“You own half the security companies in Nevada, Vincent. Don't insult me.”

His jaw tightened.

“I told everyone not to look for you.”

That surprised me.

“Why?”

“Because I thought if I had someone track you down after you left me, you'd never speak to me again.”

“That's possibly the first intelligent thing you've done in two weeks.”

He accepted the hit.

Then his eyes moved past me.

“Is she here?”

“Yes.”

“Can I see her?”

The question caught me off guard.

Not because he asked.

Because he asked instead of demanding.

“You can see your daughter.”

His shoulders dropped a fraction.

“Thank you.”

“But you're not taking her anywhere.”

“I wasn't going to.”

“And my mother stays in the room.”

His expression hardened for half a second.

Then disappeared.

“Fine.”

I stepped aside.

Vincent walked inside the house where he'd once attended Thanksgiving dinners, complained about my mother's dry turkey, and fallen asleep beside me during old Christmas movies.

Now he looked like a guest.

Mom stood near the bassinet.

She didn't greet him.

Vincent stopped when he saw Sophia.

He had held her twice in fifteen days.

I knew because I'd counted.

He approached slowly.

“She got bigger.”

“Babies do that.”

His eyes closed briefly.

I regretted the cruelty almost immediately.

Almost.

He crouched beside the bassinet.

Sophia stretched one tiny fist near her face.

Vincent stared.

“Can I hold her?”

I looked at his hands.

Hands that signed multimillion-dollar contracts.

Hands men feared.

Hands that had somehow been too busy to hold his newborn daughter.

“Wash them first.”

He nodded immediately.

Mom pointed toward the kitchen.

Vincent washed his hands like a surgeon.

Twice.

When he returned, I lifted Sophia carefully and placed her against his chest.

His entire posture changed.

The first time I'd seen Vincent hold our daughter at the hospital, his phone had rung within ninety seconds.

He'd handed her back to me.

This time there was no phone.

No distraction.

Only shock.

Sophia opened her eyes.

Vincent whispered, “Hi.”

His voice broke.

I looked away.

“Hi, baby girl.”

Sophia stared at him with the solemn suspicion newborns give everybody.

Then her fingers curled around one of his.

Vincent froze.

My mother turned away sharply and pretended to adjust a lamp.

I hated that the sight affected me.

Because I remembered the man I had believed he would be.

“You missed this,” I said quietly.

His eyes remained on Sophia.

“I know.”

“No, Vincent. You missed everything.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He lifted his gaze.

“I read the cards.”

My chest tightened.

“Good.”

“I deserved every word.”

“Yes.”

“I should've been there.”

“Yes.”

“I should never have left the hospital.”

“Yes.”

His eyes reddened.

“And I lied to you.”

I stared at him.

The admission should have satisfied me.

Instead, it made me angry.

“You don't get points for telling the truth after I leave.”

“I know.”

“Stop saying that.”

His mouth closed.

Sophia started fussing.

Without thinking, Vincent rocked her.

The movement was awkward but instinctive.

My heart twisted painfully.

After several seconds, he said, “Nothing happened with Victoria.”

I laughed once.

The sound was ugly.

“You still think that's the point.”

“It matters.”

“Not as much as you think.”

“I didn't sleep with her.”

“You left your laboring wife to rescue her.”

His face hardened.

“She said she was in danger.”

“And when I was in surgery?”

Silence.

“When I was hemorrhaging, Vincent?”

His eyes fell.

“I made the wrong choice.”

“You made fifteen days of choices.”

Sophia began crying harder.

I reached for her.

Vincent hesitated before surrendering her.

“I want to fix this.”

“You can't.”

“I can try.”

“You can become a better father.”

His face changed.

“And us?”

“There is no us.”

“Claire—”

“My attorney will arrange a parenting schedule.”

“I don't want to see my daughter on a schedule.”

I held Sophia tighter.

“Then you should have remembered she existed without one.”

He flinched.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then his phone vibrated in his pocket.

His eyes never left mine.

“Answer it.”

“No.”

“Maybe Victoria needs you.”

Something dangerous flashed across his face.

“Don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Say her name like she matters more than you.”

I stared at him.

“I'm not the one who made it look that way.”

He reached into his pocket, removed the phone and switched it completely off.

Then he placed it on the entryway table.

“I came here because of you and Sophia.”

“Fifteen days late.”

“Yes.”

The word was quiet.

No defense.

No excuse.

Just yes.

He moved toward the door.

Before leaving, he looked back at our daughter.

“When can I see her again?”

“Rebecca will contact your lawyer.”

Pain crossed his face.

He nodded anyway.

Then he left.

I stood behind the closed door until I heard his car pull away.

Mom came beside me.

“You still love him.”

I looked down at Sophia.

“That doesn't mean I should stay married to him.”

My mother said nothing.

Because she knew I was right.

Across town, Vincent turned his phone back on.

Seventeen missed calls from Victoria.

He ignored every one.

Then he saw a message from an unknown number.

A photograph.

It showed me leaving my mother's house earlier that afternoon with Sophia in my arms.

Underneath were six words.

Your wife shouldn't be this difficult.

Vincent stared at the image.

And for the first time, his anger wasn't directed at me.

It was directed at the person who had been watching us.