Chapter 2

I told Grant the next morning.

I told him every word. The brakes. The phone call. One Ashford down.

He listened with his arms crossed, then sighed like I was a child who'd wet the bed.

"Ivy, you were on morphine."

"I know what I heard."

"You heard a grieving woman talking to her mother." He rubbed his forehead. "Sienna almost died too. She's been crying all night about your baby."

"Our baby, Grant. Lily was our baby."

He looked away.

That was when his mother swept in. Diane Whitmore—pearls, Chanel, a face so filled with Botox it couldn't show sympathy even if she'd had any.

"I heard about your little accusation," she said. "Sienna is family. Her mother was my dearest friend. You, on the other hand, came from a foster home with nothing but a cheap dress and a talent for trapping my son."

"I loved your son."

"You loved his money." She dropped a folder on my lap. "Since you're so upset, let's make this easy."

Divorce papers. Already drafted.

I flipped the pages with numb fingers. The prenup I'd signed at twenty-two, when I trusted him. No alimony. No settlement. Not even the car I drove—the one that burned.

"You're throwing me out," I said, "two days after I buried nothing because I haven't even been allowed to bury her yet."

"Don't be dramatic," Diane said. "Sienna's baby will be a Whitmore. Grant needs to focus on his real family now."

His real family.

I looked at Grant. Waited for him to say something. Anything.

He said, "Sign it, Ivy. It's better for everyone."

They discharged me that afternoon. I had nowhere to go but the house—Grant's house.

The nursery was gone.

Not empty. Gone. Lily's crib, the lavender walls I'd painted myself, the rocking chair I'd found at a flea market and restored—all of it.

In its place: a white marble vanity. A pink velvet chaise. A framed ultrasound on the wall.

Sienna's ultrasound.

"Oh! You're home." Sienna appeared in the doorway wearing my silk robe. "Grant said I should stay here while I recover. Doctor's orders. And I'll need the nursery for my baby, obviously. You don't need it anymore."

The room tilted.

"Where are Lily's things?"

She tilted her head, sweet as candy. "I had the housekeeper donate them. It's healthier for you not to dwell, Ivy. Attachment is just pain you haven't let go of yet."

I lunged for her.

I didn't touch her. Grant was suddenly there, between us, gripping my wrist so hard it bruised.

"Are you insane?" he hissed. "She's pregnant."

"She killed our daughter!"

"Enough!" He shoved me back. My hip hit the doorframe. My stitches pulled and something tore, hot and wet. I gasped and slid down the wall.

Grant didn't kneel. He didn't reach for me.

He turned to Sienna. "Are you okay? Did she scare the baby?"

Behind his shoulder, Sienna looked down at me and mouthed two words.

You lose.

I packed one bag. That's all I owned that was really mine.

On my way out, the housekeeper, Rosa, pressed something into my hand. A tiny knitted hat. Pink. The one I'd made for Lily.

"I saved it," she whispered. "I'm sorry, mija."

I held it to my chest and walked into the street.

A black Rolls-Royce was parked at the curb.

The back door opened, and a man stepped out—tall, black coat, a bandage across his knuckles.

Gray eyes.

The stranger who'd pulled me from the fire.

"Mrs. Whitmore," he said quietly. "My name is Rhys Kane. I've been looking for you for a very long time."

He held out an envelope.

Stamped across the top in red letters: DNA RESULTS — CONFIDENTIAL.