In the grand entryway, Margot folded her arms. “Before you leave,” she said, “you’ll apologize for wasting our time.”
I refused.
The security guards appeared as if summoned by the word itself, and before I could react, one of them took Noah from my arms. Panic tore through me so violently I screamed, a raw, animal sound that echoed against marble walls.
They dragged me.
My body hit the floor, pain blooming white-hot through my abdomen as blood soaked into the expensive carpet, and Veronica filmed every second, while Selene watched with satisfaction, and Julian stood silently near the staircase, his face empty, his eyes avoiding mine.
They threw me outside into the snow, barefoot, bleeding, shaking, and tossed Noah after me as if he were luggage rather than a human life.
The doors slammed shut.
I remember thinking, distantly, that this was how people died, not dramatically, but quietly, when no one thought they mattered.
Then headlights cut through the storm.
Three black vehicles pulled into the drive, tires crunching against ice, and a man in a dark coat stepped out, holding an umbrella like a shield against the world. He approached carefully, his eyes widening when he saw me collapsed in the snow with a newborn clutched to my chest.
