Chapter 3

I was discharged from the hospital two days later. Alexander sent a car — not for me, but for the documents. His assistant, a mousy woman named Claire, arrived with a manila envelope and a tight smile.

"Mr. Reed would like the signed relinquishment returned by five p.m. today."

I took the envelope and closed the door in her face.

Inside my cramped studio apartment — the one I'd kept throughout the marriage because Alexander never offered me a room in his penthouse — I spread the documents across the kitchen table. Garrett had already flagged seventeen clauses that were either unenforceable or borderline illegal. The contract had been designed to strip me of every right, and I'd signed it in desperation without a lawyer present.

That girl felt like a stranger now.

My phone buzzed. A text from Alexander:

[Sign the papers, Vivienne. Don't drag this out.]

Then another:

[Sophia's already bonded with the baby. It would be cruel to disrupt that now.]

Cruel. He actually used the word "cruel." The man who left me laboring alone for six hours, who never once attended a prenatal appointment, who flinched every time my pregnant belly accidentally brushed against him — that man was lecturing me about cruelty.

I typed back: [I need more time.]

His response was instant: [You have until tomorrow. After that, my lawyers will enforce the contract.]

I set the phone down and called Garrett.

"How quickly can we move?"

"The Ashford Group board is expecting you in London next week. Your grandfather's will has already passed probate. Technically, you've been the majority shareholder for eleven days."

"And the contract with Alexander?"

"My team's already drafting a counterclaim. The lack of independent legal counsel during signing alone could void it. But Vivienne — are you sure about this? Once we challenge the contract, he'll know something has changed."

"Let him wonder."

That evening, I did something I hadn't done in months — I went for a walk. Not to a pharmacy, not to a clinic, not to a lawyer's office. Just a walk. The winter air bit my cheeks, and my C-section scar ached with every step, but I kept going.

Near the park, my phone rang. Unknown number again — but different from Garrett's.

"Is this Vivienne?" A woman's voice, trembling.

"Who is this?"

"It's Claire. Alexander's assistant. I — I need to tell you something, but if he finds out I called, he'll fire me."

I stopped walking. "Go on."

"The relinquishment papers he sent you — they're not the originals. He had his lawyers add a new clause last night. If you sign this version, you forfeit the five million too."

My blood went cold. "What?"

"Sophia convinced him. She said you'd sign anything because you're desperate. She told him you'd never push back." Claire's voice cracked. "I'm sorry, Vivienne. I've watched how they treated you, and I — I couldn't stay quiet anymore."

After hanging up, I sat on a park bench for a long time, letting the rage settle into something sharper and more useful than fury: clarity.

He wasn't just discarding me. He was trying to rob me on the way out. Five million dollars — the money meant to save my mother's memory, to pay the debts she died under, to give me a fresh start — and he was planning to snatch it back because Sophia batted her eyes and told him he could.

I pulled up the Ashford Group's website on my phone. The homepage featured a black-and-white portrait of my grandfather, alongside the company's founding motto: "Ashfords don't kneel."

I dialed Garrett. "Change of plans. I don't want to wait until it hurts the most."

"Oh?"

"I want to walk into Alexander Reed's office, buy his company out from under him, and watch his face when he realizes who I am."

Garrett was quiet for a beat. Then: "I'll have the acquisition team ready by Monday."

I hung up and looked at the sky — clear, cold, infinite.

Ashfords don't kneel.

And I was done kneeling.