Eloise
The knock on the door wasn’t frantic, wasn’t loud. Just firm.
I froze where I stood in the kitchen, Max’s half-eaten toast still on the plate in front of me. The morning sun streamed through the windows, but it felt cold.
I knew. Before I even opened the door, I knew.
“Ms. Eloise Sinclair?” The man in the grey suit, eyes avoiding mine, held out an envelope.
“For you.”
My fingers felt like ice as I took it.
“Served,” he muttered, turning on his heel, gone before I could summon a word.
I shut the door, the weight of the envelope burning my palm. Lucian’s name stared up at me from the corner of the document.
I sank onto the couch, Max’s chatter from the other room muffled by the blood pounding in my ears.
With trembling hands, I opened it.
By the time I reached the final page, my vision blurred. Not because it was my first time seeing Lucian perform his madness but what the words the paper contained.
Shared custody. Emotional wellbeing at risk, risk of being unstable
