“I said no,” I repeated, stronger now. “I am not signing your forged conservatorship papers. I am not going to that isolated summer house. And I am not smiling for your cameras tomorrow.”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed.
“Nathaniel,” she said sharply. “Handle your wife. She’s having another episode. If she won’t go upstairs, drag her.”
Nathaniel lunged.
I wrapped my arms around my stomach and closed my eyes.
But before he touched me, the electronic locks on the front doors released with a loud mechanical clunk.
Nathaniel froze.
The double doors burst open, and humid night air swept into the foyer.
A tall man in a black trench coat stepped inside. His silver hair was perfectly combed back, and his blue eyes fixed on Nathaniel with terrifying calm.
Behind him came two attorneys with leather briefcases and three large private security officers.
My father had arrived.
For the first time since I had known him, Nathaniel Mercer looked confused. Truly confused.
“Who the hell are you?” he snapped. “How did you get past my gates? Get out before I call the police!”
My father ignored him. His eyes found me immediately—shaking, pregnant, bruised by fear, but standing.
He lifted two fingers.
“Get a medical team in here for my daughter. Now.”
Nathaniel went pale.
“Daughter?” he choked.
I let the word sit in the air.
