Chapter 1 - The Protocol
The color drained from Marcus’s face so fast he looked like a ghost. He took a step toward me, his hands raised in a placating gesture, but the damage was done. The air in the hospital room was thick with the irreversible weight of my phone call.
“Elena, what did you just do?” he stammered, the arrogant smirk completely wiped from his lips.
“I secured my daughter’s life,” I said, my voice steady, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. I turned my back on him and Chloe, walking over to Lily’s bed. I gently stroked her frail, sleeping hand.
“You’re bluffing,” Chloe scoffed from the doorway, crossing her arms over her pregnant belly. “Arthur Vance is just an old man who plays golf. He doesn’t have any power over your marital assets.”
“You’re right about one thing, Chloe,” I replied without looking at her. “He’s not a divorce lawyer. He’s the executor of a blind trust my father set up before he died—a trust that specifically stated in the event of my husband attempting to misuse the funds, Arthur has the unilateral right to freeze everything and lock Marcus out entirely.”
Marcus pulled out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen. A second later, the blood rushed back into his face, turning it a deep, furious red. “My accounts… they’re locked. My credit cards, the checking account, the savings. Elena, unlock them right now!”
“I can’t,” I whispered, finally looking at him. The sheer panic in his eyes was the most beautiful thing I had seen in months. “Only Arthur can. And he won’t.”
“We have a baby coming!” Chloe shrieked, her facade breaking.
“Then I suggest the two of you start figuring out how to buy diapers on a dime,” I said. “Because you aren't getting a single cent of Lily’s money. Now get out of my daughter’s room before I have security throw you out.”
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Marcus glared at me, his fists clenched, but the furious beeping of his phone—alerts of declined transactions—broke his nerve. He grabbed Chloe’s arm and dragged her out into the hallway.
I was alone with Lily. I kissed her forehead. “We’re going to Seattle, baby,” I whispered. “Mommy’s got you.”
