PART 2
“Yes,” I whisper into the phone. “Freeze everything.”
For a moment, there’s nothing but the soft beeping of the hospital monitor and my newborn son’s tiny breaths against my chest.
Martin Hale—my attorney—doesn’t ask if I’m sure. He’s been waiting to hear those words for nearly two years.
“Understood,” he says. “Are you safe?”
I glance around the private recovery room at Northwestern Memorial Hospital in Chicago. The flowers from Daniel’s office sit untouched by the window. My bag is still half-zipped in the corner. My body aches in ways I didn’t know were possible, like I’m being stitched back together from the inside out.
But my son is breathing.
And Daniel is gone.
“Yes,” I say. “For now.”
“Did he leave the baby with you?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else with you?”
“No. He left with his parents and his sister.”
Martin’s voice hardens.
“Six hours after delivery?”
“Yes.”
“And he told you to take the bus home?”
I close my eyes.
“Yes.”
My baby shifts in my arms, letting out a soft, hungry sound. I press my lips to his forehead.
“What’s your son’s name?” Martin asks, gentler now.
I look down at the small face tucked against me.
Daniel wanted to name him after his father. His mother had her own opinions. His sister treated it like branding a product.
But I had already chosen.
“Elliot,” I say.
There’s a pause.
“Your father will like that,” Martin replies.
My throat tightens.
My father.
The man Daniel assumed didn’t matter—because I once said my family wasn’t very involved, and he never cared enough to ask more.
That ends tonight.
“I’ll call your father,” Martin says.
“No,” I reply.
He pauses.
“I want to call him myself.”
“Claire, you just gave birth.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have to do this alone.”
I look at the door Daniel walked through. I can still hear his voice: Don’t call too much. We’re celebrating.
I look back at Elliot.
He opens his mouth, searching, trusting me completely.
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
After I hang up, I scroll to a contact Daniel has never noticed.
Dad — Private Office
My thumb hovers for a second.
For three years, I kept my distance. I wanted a marriage that was mine—not protected, not managed, not backed by power. I wanted something real.
I thought simple meant safe.
I was wrong.
I press call.
He answers immediately.
“Claire?”
One word—and suddenly I’m not just the woman abandoned in a hospital bed.
I’m his daughter again.
“Dad.”
His breath catches.
“The baby?”
“He’s here.”
A pause.
“And you?”
I try to answer, but my voice breaks.
“Claire,” he says quietly. “What happened?”
I close my eyes.
“Daniel left me at the hospital six hours after I gave birth. He took his family to dinner. Told me to take the bus home tomorrow.”
Silence.
Not confusion.
Not shock.
Something colder.
“Where is my grandson?” he asks.
“In my arms.”
“Where is Daniel?”
“At dinner.”
A slow exhale.
“What do you need?”
“I told Martin to freeze everything.”
“Good.”
“I want him cut off from every account, every card, every asset connected to me.”
“Done.”
“I want the locks changed before I’m discharged.”
“Done.”
“I want security here.”
“Already in motion.”
I blink.
“Already?”
“Martin texted me one word while you were calling.”
“What word?”
“Proceed.”
A broken laugh escapes me, turning into a sob.
