I looked through the nursery glass at my daughter. “I was sure the day he drugged me.”
At five, Damon returned with my father and Celeste. He placed the folder beside my dinner tray.
“Last chance,” he said. “Sign, or we protect the baby from you.”
I held my daughter closer.
“You targeted the wrong mother,” I said.
He stood beside my private recovery bed in his fitted navy coat, the same coat he wore when he purchased companies and destroyed men before noon. Behind him, my husband, Damon, leaned by the window with his arms crossed, handsome, refined, and far too satisfied. My stepmother, Celeste, touched a tissue to eyes that had not shed a single tear.
Then my father asked softly, “Honey, are the four thousand dollars a month not enough for you?”
I looked at him through the pain of stitches, blood loss, and thirty-six hours of labor. “What four thousand dollars?”
Damon released a weary laugh. “Marin, don’t start.”
Celeste sighed like I had humiliated the family once more. “She’s exhausted, Richard. The nurses said she’s been emotional.” Dinnerparty supplies
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My father’s jaw hardened. “Damon told me you threatened to keep the baby from him unless I raised your allowance. He said you called this morning.”
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