Chapter 2

I couldn't get the word "no" out.

All I managed, under Jim's mocking stare, was a stiff, "Stay. Please. Charlie burned his hands cooking that."

Jim raised an eyebrow and sat down, visibly pleased with himself.

Thrilled, Charlie scrambled to pile several dishes into his father's bowl.

"This is the first time I made this," he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "Mom says it's really good. Try it, Dad."

Jim listened with half an ear, his attention locked on his phone. Just as he lifted a bite to his mouth, something on the screen made his brow crease. He set his fork down with a sharp crack, grabbed his suit jacket, and hurried out the door—without so much as a word goodbye.

The food Charlie had set on his plate sat there, untouched, going cold.

My son didn't say anything. He just hung his head. It wasn't until the tears started falling, one after another, that I finally pulled him into my arms.

I meant to tell him the same lie I always did—that his father was simply too busy. But he already knew, without me having to say it, whose ringtone that had been. Elizabeth Johnson's.

That night, after turning it over in my mind, I finally told my parents everything.

They asked me to confirm my decision, more than once, and then gave me their answer without hesitation: liquidate the assets, and wait for the right moment.

I already knew they'd heard about the mess Jim had made of things. They'd never brought it up, only because they didn't want to embarrass me—but they'd clearly been preparing for a while, just waiting for me to take the first step.

I was still deep in thought when a floorboard creaked somewhere in the dark. My heart skipped, and I spun around to find my son standing small in the doorway. I had no idea how much of what I'd just said he'd overheard.

But over the thunder of my own heartbeat, all he asked, perfectly calm, was what he should wear to the charity gala tomorrow.

I froze for a second, then bent down and pulled him close. "Your dad's coming to take us shopping for it tomorrow. Don't worry."

He nodded and went obediently back to his room. I watched him go and let out a long sigh.

After a night of tossing and turning, Jim showed up right on time to pick us up. Charlie, who'd already been waiting outside, lit up and pulled the car door open—only to have the smile freeze on his face a second later.

Sitting in the seat that had always been his was a boy his own age: Elizabeth Johnson's son, Milo Foster. And sitting in my seat was Elizabeth herself.

The breath caught in my throat. It felt like being slapped across the face.

"You're bringing them to the gala?"

Showing up somewhere that formal with the two of them in tow would be no different than smearing filth across my name in front of everyone.

Before Jim could answer, Elizabeth hurried to step in front of him.

"No, no, it's not like that! Autumn, please don't blame Jim. He just felt sorry for the two of us and offered to take us to pick out a few outfits, that's all."

Her posture was meek, her voice weak and pitiful—but the look she gave me was perfectly composed.

I wasn't in the mood to play nice with her, so I asked her straight out. "You know I'd blame him for this. So why did you still come along?"

Elizabeth stared at me, wide-eyed, looking as wronged as a woman with no way to defend herself, and tears started sliding down her face. Milo reached up with a tender little hand to wipe her cheek and burst into loud sobs right along with her.

Jim's voice cut in, cold. "That's enough, Autumn."

He looked at me, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Get in the Bentley."

He hadn't said much, but his choice had already been made clear. The staff standing around exchanged glances, and I felt something bitter and metallic rise in my throat. My vision swam dark for a moment—and then my son's small, cold hand found mine. He looked up at his father, his voice stubborn.

"Why do Mom and I have to ride in that car?"

Jim's brow furrowed. It was the first time our son had ever defied him.