Chapter 10
The drive back to Gideon’s primary residence should have felt like a victory, but the weight of Julian Vance’s digital confession only compounded the phantom dread that had haunted me for ten months. As Gideon’s town car pulled through the wrought-iron gates of the estate, the interior lights of the grand limestone manor were blazing. Rows of tall, arched windows cast long, pale bars of illumination across the manicured boxwood hedges.
"They're waiting," Gideon said, cutting the engine before the driver could even step out to open the door. He turned to me in the dim cabin, his face etched with shadows under the dashboard lights. "My board of directors. Vance must have tipped them off the moment he realized his escrow account was frozen. They think I'm a liability."
I shifted Owen slightly in my arms. The baby was fast asleep, his small chest rising and falling rhythmically against the black sequins of my dress, which I hadn't yet changed out of. "They want the adoption sealed?"
"They want the scandal buried," Gideon corrected, his voice dropping into that low, flat register that signaled absolute danger. "An illegal adoption network tied to Vance Medical Foundation doesn't just ruin my reputation; it tanks three municipal infrastructure bids and a federal defense contract. They'll try to use the courts to separate us, Clara. They'll claim I'm unfit because I was deceived, and they'll dig up your past at twelve years old to argue you're an unstable risk."
I looked down at the tiny hand resting against my wrist, my thumb brushing over the crescent scar. "They can try."
When we walked through the double oak doors of the foyer, the air inside was thick with the scent of scotch and expensive parchment. Three men in impeccably tailored charcoal suits stood near the massive stone fireplace. Arthur Pendelton, the senior managing partner of Gideon’s firm, turned first, his silver hair catching the chandelier light. Beside him stood Marcus Cole, the corporate counsel who had drafted the initial hush-hush agreements for Vance a year ago.
"Gideon," Pendelton said, his voice dripping with condescension as he ignored me entirely. "We’ve been reviewing the emergency filings from the federal district judge. This foolishness with the woman and the infant has gone far enough. The board has voted to invoke the morality clause in your partnership agreement."
Gideon didn't flinch. He walked past them toward the grand staircase, his boots clicking sharply against the marble floor. "The board can take my partnership and shove it down their corporate throats."
"You don't understand the optics," Cole barked, stepping forward. His eyes flicked toward me with undisguised disgust. "A twelve-year-old mother from the slums, a stolen child—the press will crucify the firm by noon tomorrow. Hand the boy to security, Gideon. We have a private jet waiting to take him back to the state facility where he belongs, and we'll quietly pension off the girl."
Before Gideon could turn around, I stepped around the base of the stairs, my voice cutting through the cavernous room like a razor. "My name is Clara. And if any one of you touches my son, I will make sure the federal magistrate sees every wire transfer Julian Vance sent to your personal Swiss accounts."
Pendelton’s face went slack, color draining from his cheeks. "You're trespassing—"
"I am standing in the home of the man who raised my son," I said, stepping closer until the heavy scent of their liquor mixed with the metallic tang of fear. "And you are standing in front of a mother who has nothing left to lose."
May you like
Gideon looked back at me, a fierce, dark approval flashing in his bearded face. He turned fully to his former colleagues, pulling Julian Vance's phone from his pocket and tossing it onto the mahogany side table.
"The files are already backed up to three separate federal servers," Gideon said smoothly. "If my firm survives, it will be because we clean house starting with the three of you. Get out of my house before I call the marshals."
