I set the phone facedown and smiled.
Not because any of it was funny.
But because Grant had forgotten one important detail.
The Grand Bellafiore still had our old account under my name.
Not his.
Mine.
Everything in our glass mansion in Greenwich had been chosen by Grant to make visitors feel small—the twenty-foot ceilings, the black marble floors, the cold art no one understood.
But at three in the morning, all that money felt hollow.
I walked past the nursery, where the white oak crib waited beneath soft curtains. My grandmother’s handmade blanket rested over the side, the one Grant once called “too simple.”
He had meant it as an insult.
But that blanket had more warmth than anything he had ever bought me.
I touched the doorway and whispered to my daughter, “You are safe.”
Then I walked into Grant’s office.