Chapter 4 - A Room With a Lock|
Madison's apartment was small, warm, and cluttered with books. It smelled of coffee and lavender detergent, and the radiator made a rhythmic tapping sound whenever the heat came on.
I had never been happier to see a chipped kitchen table.
“You can take my bedroom,” Madison said. “I'll sleep on the couch.”
“I'm not taking your bed.”
“You're carrying a baby. You're taking the bed.”
We argued until she threatened to put my suitcase outside if I refused. I laughed for the first time since my birthday, and the sound startled me.
Then my phone buzzed.
A new number.
You left without your medication.
I looked at the message. Vincent had remembered the prenatal vitamins I'd picked up that morning, but not the allergy that could have sent me to the emergency room.
I deleted it.
A second message arrived.
We need to talk about security.
I blocked that number too.
Madison watched me.
“Do you think he'll try to take the baby?”
“I don't know what he'll do.”
That was the truth I feared most. Vincent could be tender, generous, and unexpectedly funny. He could also be cold enough to destroy a man's career with a phone call. I had seen both sides of him, and I had spent years believing the first side would eventually win.
Madison placed a bowl of soup in front of me.
“Then we don't guess. We prepare.”
The next morning, she introduced me to a family attorney named Evelyn Shaw. Evelyn was in her fifties, wore simple black glasses, and had the unhurried manner of someone who had heard every excuse a powerful man could invent.
She listened while I explained the marriage, the restaurant, the pregnancy, and the surveillance.
When I finished, she folded her hands.
“Do you want a divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Even if he apologizes?”
“Yes.”
“Even if he offers you a house, money, or anything else you might need?”
I hesitated.
Then I nodded.
“I don't want to be paid to stay.”
Evelyn's expression softened.
“Good. Because what you need first is not a settlement. It's a plan.”
She explained the legal steps, the documentation I should preserve, and the importance of communicating with Vincent through counsel. She also warned me that a contested divorce could become complicated if his attorneys argued that his security measures were necessary because of his public profile.
“He may have influence,” she said, “but influence is not the same as ownership.”
For the first time, I felt the ground beneath me become solid.
That afternoon, I went back to the apartment and started a list: prenatal appointments, a separate bank account, medical insurance, a place to live after the baby arrived, and a job I could do without asking Vincent for money.
I had studied interior design before our wedding. I had abandoned my final semester when Vincent's business was threatened by a rival family and he asked me to help manage a crisis at home.
I had told myself I would return to school later.
Later had become five years.
I opened my old portfolio on Madison's laptop. The designs were rough, but they were mine. A small café with skylights. A family home built around a garden. A nursery with pale green walls and shelves shaped like clouds.
I stared at the nursery design.
Then I saved a copy under a new file name.
Claire Bennett Studio.
It was a small thing, but it felt like planting a flag in a country I had forgotten existed.
At six that evening, someone knocked.
Madison checked the peephole and went still.
“It's him.”
My stomach tightened.
“Don't open it.”
“I won't.”
Vincent's voice carried through the door.
“Claire. I know you're in there.”
I moved farther into the apartment.
“Please,” he called. “I only want to see you.”
Madison stayed silent.
A pause followed.
Then his voice changed.
“If you don't open this door, I'll have my men open it.”
I stared at the locked door.
There it was again: the belief that wanting something made it his.
Madison reached for her phone.
I stopped her and stepped close enough to be heard.
“You will not force your way into this apartment.”
Silence.
“Claire,” he said, quieter now. “I'm worried about you.”
“Then learn to worry without controlling me.”
I heard him breathe.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then footsteps moved away from the door.
I waited until the elevator closed before I let out the breath I'd been holding.
Madison locked the deadbolt again.
“You okay?”
I nodded, though my hands were shaking.
Then I noticed something on the floor beneath the door.
A white envelope.
Inside was a copy of the ultrasound photograph I'd left on the kitchen counter at the mansion.
Someone had taken it from my private belongings.
On the back, in Vincent's handwriting, were six words:
I will not lose my child.
May you like
I turned the photograph over and looked at the tiny shape on the screen.
For the first time, I wondered whether Vincent wanted to know his child—or simply couldn't bear the thought of something belonging to him existing beyond his control.
