Celeste whispered,
“Grant?”
I looked at her.
“He didn’t tell you?”
Grant’s face hardened. There he was—the real man beneath the polish.
“You’ll regret this,” he said.
“No,” I replied. “You will.”
The officers took Lily from Celeste first. Her scream followed my baby across the hallway like a curse breaking apart. When Lily was placed against my chest, the world narrowed to her warmth, her sweet breath, and her tiny furious hand gripping my finger. Grant was arrested before breakfast. Dr. Vale resigned before lunch and lost his license three months later. Celeste was charged with conspiracy, forgery, and attempted custodial interference. My mother sold her house to pay legal fees, and I stopped answering her calls. Grant fought the divorce. He lost.
Six months later, I stood in my sunlit kitchen while Lily kicked in her high chair, laughing at mashed peaches. The blood was gone from the hospital floor. The fear was gone from my body. My daughter had my eyes and my stubborn hands. On the counter lay the final court order: sole custody, full asset protection, and permanent restraining orders. I folded it once and placed it in a drawer. Then I lifted Lily, kissed her warm cheek, and whispered,
“Nobody gives you away.”
Outside, the morning opened bright and clean. For the first time in years, no one was behind me. And no one dared reach for what was mine.
