“If he can prove you are unfit, he controls the child and the trust.”

“I am her mother,” I said.

“He has no grounds.”

“He will make them,” Grace warned.

My phone buzzed in my purse.

I pulled it out, expecting a message from the nanny.

Instead, it was an email from an unknown address.

I opened it, my breath catching in my throat.

It was a PDF attachment labeled ‘Confidential Medical Report – Vivian Whitmore.’

Before I could click it, my phone began to ring.

The caller ID showed Adrian’s private number.

I hesitated, then swiped the screen to answer.

“Vivian,” his voice came through the speaker, cold and completely calm.

The desperate anger from the chapel was gone, replaced by a chilling certainty.

“I hope you enjoyed your little performance,” he said.

“Because it is the last time you will ever feel like you have the upper hand.”

“What is this email, Adrian?” I demanded.

“That is just a preview of the custody filing my lawyers are preparing,” he said.

“By the time we are done in court, the world will know you as an unstable, unfit mother.”