“This is Grace Monroe, Mr. Whitmore,” she said. “This call is being recorded.”

“I do not care who is recording it,” Adrian snapped. “Tell my ex-wife to drop this ridiculous filing, or I will make her life a public hell.”

“We are on our way to the Whitmore executive offices now,” Grace said, her voice perfectly calm.

“Your mother’s legal team has already requested an emergency meeting.”

There was a brief, heavy silence on the other end of the line.

“My mother did not tell me about any meeting,” Adrian said.

“I am sure she did not,” Grace replied.

She reached out and cut the line.

The red light on the telephone went dark.

“Is he going to be there?” I asked, holding Lily a little closer.

“I count on it,” Grace said, snapping her leather briefcase shut.

Thirty minutes later, we were in the elevator rising to the penthouse floor of the Whitmore building in midtown.

The air inside the elevator smelled of expensive wax and polished brass.

Lily was asleep in her carrier, draped with a light cotton blanket to shield her from the air conditioning.