Outside, a low fog was rolling in over the East River, swallowing the tops of the skyscrapers.

Helena looked at the desk, then at the pen Blake held out to her.

Her fingers trembled as she took the heavy silver pen.

She signed her name in a jagged, hurried scrawl.

She threw the pen onto the desk.

“There,” she whispered. “Are you satisfied?”

“Not yet,” Blake said, taking the document and folding it back up.

“You are leaving the apartment in Chicago by tomorrow noon.”

“That is my home,” she said.

“It belongs to the Harrington Trust,” Blake replied.

“The trust is putting it on the market.”

Helena stared at him, her face pale, her lips pressed into a thin, white line.

“You are also banned from the estate in Maine, the townhouse in London, and the ranch,” Blake added.

“You are exiling me,” she said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Your own mother.”

“You chose this path when you tried to erase my sons,” Blake said.

He walked to the door and opened it wide.

“Arthur will escort you out.”