Grace stood beside me, her eyes fixed on the digital floor indicator as the numbers climbed.

The doors slid open to a lobby of white marble and dark mahogany.

A receptionist in a tailored black suit stood up immediately, but Grace walked right past her.

We entered the glass-walled boardroom at the end of the hall.

Margaret Whitmore sat at the head of the long table.

She wore a gray wool suit, her silver hair pinned back into a tight, flawless bun.

Adrian stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the hazy Manhattan skyline.

He turned around the moment the door clicked open.

His face darkened when his eyes fell on me.

“What is she doing here with the child?” Adrian demanded, gesturing toward Lily’s carrier.

“She is here because she is the mother of the sole biological Whitmore heir,” Grace said.

Grace pulled out a chair for me and then sat down herself.

I placed Lily’s carrier gently on the empty chair next to me.

“This is an absolute farce,” Adrian said, stepping toward the table. “Mother, why are we humoring this woman?”