Chapter 15

The kitchen was warm with morning light, but it felt like a trap.

The soft golden rays touched everything—the marble counter, the ceramic plates, the photo of Jayden in his Halloween costume—but none of it felt safe. My hands moved like they belonged to someone else, flipping pancakes, slicing strawberries, pouring juice in his dinosaur cup.

All the things a good mother did.

All the things a perfect wife should.

I heard Jonathan's footsteps before I saw him.

His cologne reached me first, that expensive mix of leather and pine I used to crave. Now it made my stomach twist.

He came up behind me, arms wrapping around my waist like we were still that couple. Why was he still doing this? His lips brushed my cheek.

“Good morning, beautiful.”

I smiled. Trained. “Morning.”

He leaned against the counter like he belonged there, gaze resting on me with too much ease. Watching. Always watching.

“Have you seen my silver watch? The one with the blue face. I could’ve sworn I left it on the dresser.”

“No,” I answered quickly. Too quickly. I didn’t meet his eyes. My pulse pounded in my throat.

Had he found something? Had he been near the lion?

Before I could think more, Jayden came thumping in barefoot, his hair still sleep-tousled and his arms wide open.

“Daddy says we might go on a trip soon!” he said excitedly. “Mommy, can we go to the new house too? The one with the big yard?”

My hand froze over the stack of pancakes. New house?

I turned to Jonathan. His smile didn’t falter, not even a hairline crack.

“He’s just making up stories again,” he said easily, ruffling Jayden’s hair. “You know how kids are.”

I laughed, or tried to. But it broke at the edges.

He looked at me too long after that. And I knew. That wasn’t a story.

That was a plan.

---

After I dropped Jayden off at school, I parked in the furthest corner of the lot. Somewhere the cameras didn’t reach, the windows tinted just enough. My fingers trembled slightly as I unlocked my phone.

One message. From Conan.

Conan: We have movement. Sending details by courier. Burn after reading.

I stared at the words until they blurred. Then shoved the phone deep into my bag like it might bite me.

The drive back home was a blur. My hands shook on the wheel. I kept checking the rear-view mirror.

Every car felt like it was following me.

At home, I paced. Pretended to clean. Scrubbed the same spotless sink three times. Turned off the lights in rooms I hadn’t even entered.

By noon, I’d nearly convinced myself the knock wouldn’t come.

But it did.

Three soft taps.

I opened the back door.

A woman stood there. Older, maybe late sixties. Wrapped in a plain brown coat, a white scarf pulled snug beneath her chin. She didn’t speak. Her eyes didn’t linger. She handed me an envelope and walked away like she’d never been there.

I closed the door. Locked it. Double-checked it. Then tore the envelope open with shaking fingers.

Inside, a list.

Dates Samira had visited the council building—none of them official. No records. No hearings.

A medical report. Fake. Stamped and sealed. It claimed I’d had “episodes of instability,” that I posed a potential risk to my child.

And a bank transaction: Jonathan, wiring money to a private legal firm. The memo read: Custody Prep.

At the bottom of the last page, Conan’s familiar handwriting.

"She’s preparing for custody. You have 7 days. — C."

Seven days.

My legs gave out beneath me. I slid to the kitchen floor and pressed the paper to my chest like it might stop my heart from breaking.

---

Evening brought more than shadows. It brought her.

The doorbell rang at dusk.

I opened the door and found Delia—Samira’s assistant—smiling too wide, her hair perfect, her coat too clean for the wind outside. She held a pastel-wrapped box like it was a trophy.

“Maya, hi!” she chirped. “Samira asked me to drop this off. Just a little care package. You’ve been under so much stress lately.”

My mouth went dry. I stepped aside anyway. “That’s… thoughtful. Come in.”

She walked in slowly, eyes scanning everything. The framed photos. The placement of the throw pillows. The faint scent of lemon cleaner.

“This place feels so lived-in again,” she said, sinking into the couch like she belonged there.

“We’re settling,” I replied, my voice even. “Trying to make things work.”

She smiled over the rim of the tea I handed her. “It must be hard. You know, for women who aren’t natural nurturers.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

She waved a hand, faux-apologetic. “Oh, I mean no judgment. Some women are just… better at delegating. It’s okay. It’s not for everyone.”

I didn’t speak.

She sipped again, unfazed. “Custody courts are tricky these days. Especially when certain files get… unsealed.”

The tea in my hand rippled.

She noticed. Smiled.

“You know,” she added softly, “children can sense chaos. It’s best to give them peace early. Before things… escalate.”

I stood. Took her empty cup.

“Tell Samira thank you,” I said. “And let her know—I’m not the one breaking.”

---

That night, when Jayden was asleep, I dialed Conan. My voice barely held steady.

“She sent her assistant,” I said quietly. “Not a gift. A message.”

He didn’t respond at first. When he did, his voice was low. Tired. Dangerous.

“Then she’s scared. She’s rushing. Which means she’s hiding something worse.”

“She’s building a case. And Jonathan’s part of it. He’s watching me.”

“Then we give him what he wants to see,” Conan said. “Let him believe you’re back under his thumb. Smile. Comply. Let him relax.”

My throat tightened. “And Jayden?”

“I won’t let them take him,” he said. “Even if it means tearing the whole damn system down.”

---

The house was too quiet when I returned to the bedroom.

The silence wasn’t peace—it was warning.

I turned down the covers and froze.

My pillow had been moved. Slightly. Just enough for someone who knew me to notice.

I reached beneath it.

My fingers closed around something folded. Thin paper. No envelope.

I unfolded it slowly.

Sleep tight, Maya. You’re running out of nights.

No signature. No date. Just the words.

The ink was smudged near the bottom, like whoever wrote it had pressed too hard.

My throat closed.

I looked toward the hallway. Every shadow stretched long. Every creak felt intentional.

They weren’t at the door anymore.

They were already inside.

Watching.

Waiting.

And the clock had started