“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, though his voice wavered slightly. “The lawyers finalized everything. It’s done.”

“I saw the Delaware filing, Nolan,” I said. “I saw my signature.”

Another pause.

“Evelyn, you’re not well,” he said, his voice dropping into a patronizing, soothing register. “You’ve been under a lot of stress. Postpartum depression can do strange things to a person’s memory.”

My fist clenched on the desk.

“My memory is perfectly fine,” I said.

“That’s not what the medical records say,” he replied, a chilling note of satisfaction creeping into his tone.

“What records?”

“Let’s just say my mother has been very thorough,” Nolan said. “We have documentation of your history of emotional instability. If we go to court, a judge will see that you are incapable of caring for Maisie on your own.”

“You are threatening me,” I said.

“I’m offering you a choice,” he said. “Come back to the townhouse. We will manage the trust fund together, as a family. Or this gets very public, very quickly.”

“I am at my father’s house,” I said.