“You have me,” Thomas said firmly. “And you have a safe place to sleep. Don’t you worry about the money.”

My phone buzzed again in my hand, the vibration sharp against my sore palm.

It was a text message from an unknown local number.

I opened it.

*Emma, we need to discuss the arrangements for Ethan’s care before we can discuss restoring your access to the family funds. Let’s be sensible. Margaret.*

My fingers shook so hard I almost dropped the phone.

She was holding my survival hostage to get her hands on my son.

“Margaret just texted me,” I said, reading the words aloud to the empty space of the cabin.

Thomas gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned a stark white.

“She hasn’t changed a single bit in thirty years,” he said, his voice flat with an old, hard anger.

“How can she do this to her own grandson?” I asked, looking out at the passing gray houses of Denver.

“Because to Margaret, Ethan isn’t a grandson,” Thomas said. “He is an asset. He is the next generation of the Parker name, and she wants to write his script.”