Adrian thought I had surrendered.
He had no idea who my parents really were.
Part 2
When I returned home two days later, the locks had been changed.
The driver helped me carry the babies up the front steps while rain striped the windows. I stood there with my hospital bag, three car seats, and stitches pulling under my dress, staring at the house I had designed from the ground up.
A security guard opened the door.
“Mrs. Vale?” he asked, embarrassed. “I was told you no longer live here.”
I laughed once. It sounded dead.
Behind him, Celeste appeared barefoot in my hallway, wearing my silk robe.
“Oh good,” she said. “You got the message.”
Adrian came down the staircase, sleeves rolled up, holding a glass of whiskey. “You should’ve signed.”
I looked past him. The family portraits were gone. My nursery camera had been removed. Celeste’s perfume had infected the walls.
“You transferred the house,” I said.
Celeste lifted her left hand, flashing a diamond. “Into my name.”
“Consider it motivation,” Adrian said. “There’s a serviced apartment downtown. I paid one month. Don’t make me regret that generosity.”
I held my son closer. “You put newborns out in the rain.”
“No,” he said coldly. “You refused to cooperate.”
Celeste leaned against the banister. “Careful, Evelyn. Courts don’t like unstable mothers.”
There it was.
The plan.
Humiliate me. Exhaust me. Make me react. Paint me as emotional, desperate, unfit. Then take the babies, the house, the assets, and walk into society with a mistress polished into a wife.
I lowered my eyes.
Adrian mistook it for defeat.
“That’s better,” he said. “Learn your place.”
I turned without answering.
In the car, my mother sat waiting. Not in pearls. Not in designer armor. Just a gray coat, a phone in her hand, and the kind of stillness that made powerful men nervous.
“Well?” she asked.
“He transferred the deed.”
“To her personally?”
“Yes.”
