“Get some sleep, Blaire.”
After he left, I sat on the floor beside Fiona’s bed until she fell asleep.
Then I went into the bathroom and cried so hard I had to sit on the edge of the tub.
Not because David had found me.
Not because Luca Sterling had rescued me.
He hadn’t.
I cried because for the first time in days, nobody was demanding anything from me.
There was no locked door.
No declined card.
No voice telling me I was overreacting.
No need to keep my face calm so Fiona would not be scared.
By midnight, I was on a video call with an Illinois family attorney named Miriam Cole.
She was in her fifties, wore reading glasses on a chain, and had the reassuring manner of someone who did not confuse drama with urgency.
“I’ve read his filing,” she said.
My stomach tightened.
