Six months after our divorce, my ex-husband showed up at my door with his fiancée and a wedding invitation in hand—but the second he saw the newborn in my arms, all the color drained from his face, and the perfect life he thought he’d built started falling apart right in front of me.

Her smile thinned. “The Collins family does not keep its own at arm’s length.”

“He’s not being kept from anyone. He’s being protected.”

Robert cleared his throat. “We’re not here to upset you, Hannah.”

I almost appreciated that he said upset you instead of cause trouble, because at least it acknowledged I was a person in the room.

Carol kept looking past me toward the bassinet. “This apartment is damp. It’s not ideal.”

“It’s clean, warm, and the pediatrician has already seen him here.”

“A pediatrician,” she said faintly, as if she were discussing a local dog groomer. “We have private specialists.”

“I’m not moving him.”

She turned to look at me fully then, and for the first time I saw what Ethan would become in twenty years if he didn’t choose differently.

The same self-control. The same certainty. The same belief that money was not merely comfort but authority.

“He should come to the family home,” she said. “There is staff, security, better air filtration, proper support. You can stay there with him if you insist.”

Stay there with him.

Like I’d be boarding with my own child.

“No.”

Robert shifted uncomfortably. “Carol.”

She ignored him. “A baby needs stability.”