Chapter 7 - The Custody War
Sloan lost her pregnancy.
I learned through Cole.
Whatever anger existed between us, I felt terrible for her.
Loss was loss.
But grief made Sloan more unstable.
She blamed me publicly.
Then she sued Cole.
Their divorce became vicious.
During depositions, information surfaced showing Sloan had encouraged Marianne Mercer to interfere with my medical approvals.
Not because she wanted the babies harmed.
Because she wanted pressure.
She wanted me financially desperate enough to accept a settlement requiring the triplets spend substantial time in Mercer-controlled residences.
The distinction did not comfort me.
Marianne admitted it.
Cole was furious.
For the first time, he cut his mother off financially.
She retaliated.
She petitioned for grandparent access.
Our lives became courtrooms again.
Then came the worst day.
Marianne arrived at my foundation’s launch event and tried to take Isla from a nanny.
The nanny refused.
Marianne shoved her.
I saw it across the ballroom.
“Put her down!”
Marianne had Isla in her arms.
“She’s my granddaughter.”
“Give her to me.”
“You’ve poisoned them against us.”
“She’s eight months old!”
Marianne turned away.
I grabbed her arm.
She jerked back.
Isla started crying.
Edward rushed forward.
“Do not struggle while holding the baby.”
Marianne slapped his hand away.
Cole appeared from behind the stage.
“Mom.”
She froze.
He walked slowly toward her.
“Give Lily the baby.”
“You’re choosing her again?”
“I’m choosing my daughter.”
“After everything I did for you?”
Cole’s face hardened.
“You almost endangered my children.”
“I protected this family!”
“No.”
His voice shook.
“You protected the Mercer name.”
Marianne began crying.
Then tried to move past me.
I stepped in front.
She shoved my shoulder.
Cole grabbed her wrist.
“STOP.”
The room fell silent.
Marianne slapped him.
Hard.
Cole absorbed it.
Did not react.
Then took Isla carefully.
He handed her to me.
Security escorted Marianne out.
The event resumed.
Because I refused to let another Mercer meltdown define another important day.
That night, Cole sat in my kitchen.
Edward was there.
The three of us looked absurd.
My ex-husband.
My boyfriend.
Me.
Cole laughed suddenly.
“What?”
“If someone told me two years ago I’d be sitting in Queens drinking tea with Edward Langley…”
Edward said, “The tea is terrible.”
“Thank you.”
I threw a napkin at him.
Cole smiled.
Then became serious.
“I want to revise custody.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“I want the children primarily with you.”
“You already have limited time.”
“I know.”
“I’m not trying to take them from you.”
“I know.”
He rubbed his face.
“But my life is still unstable.”
“That can change.”
“I’m working on it.”
Then he said, “I want to earn more time later.”
That sentence changed everything.
Earn.
Not demand.
We revised the agreement.
Cole attended therapy.
Parenting classes.
He sold the penthouse.
Moved into a quieter apartment.
Reduced his executive role.
For the first time, he built life around the children rather than squeezing them around his life.
One year later, Noah called him “Dada.”
Cole cried so hard I had to leave the room because I started crying too.
Edward watched from the kitchen.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Then I smiled.
“They deserve a father who keeps trying.”
Edward nodded.
“So do you.”
“What?”
“You deserved one too.”
My own father died when I was twelve.
The sentence hit unexpectedly.
I kissed Edward.
That evening, he took me to Central Park.
Not somewhere expensive.
A bench near the reservoir.
He handed me a small box.
I stared.
“No.”
He laughed.
“It isn’t what you think.”
Inside was a key.
“To what?”
“A townhouse.”
I looked at him.
“You bought me a house?”
“No.”
“Edward.”
“I bought myself one.”
I stared.
“It has a separate floor.”
“Why?”
“So if someday you and the kids want to move in, there’s room.”
My throat tightened.
“And if we don’t?”
“Then I own an unnecessarily large townhouse.”
I laughed.
No pressure.
Again.
May you like
That became our language.
Choice.
