It was a waiver releasing my claim on the penthouse’s equity.

“You are insane,” I said.

“I am practical,” Nathan replied.

“You get the child. I get the capital.”

“If you don’t sign, I will drag you through a custody battle that will drain every dime you have left.”

I stared at him, feeling the cold air from the window seep through my hospital gown.

“The Crane trust does not belong to you,” I said.

“It belongs to the estate.”

Nathan laughed, a quiet, mocking sound.

“The estate is just a pile of old papers,” he said.

“My name is on the marital home.”

“Sloane already transferred the design fees to her firm.”

“The money is gone.”

The door behind him swung open with a sudden shudder.

The bright hallway lights flooded the room.

Margaret Crane walked in.

She wore her dark wool overcoat, her silver hair pulled back tightly.

Behind her stood two men in dark suits and a uniformed police officer.

“Actually, Nathan, the money is not gone,” Margaret said.

She stepped into the room, her leather heels clicking on the tile.