Jamaica's words were clinical, chosen to wound.“but if you make a move to take Candy by force, you will be arrested and the evidence will be used against you.”The threat hung in the air like a blade. For the first time since her carefully cultivated fury had become a social weapon, Marie felt fear. It was a small, hot thing that made nausea burn under her ribs.“You’ll rue this,” she rasped, fight flaring hot and foolishly. “You’ll all rue this.”“Perhaps,” Jamaica said softly, and in that was pity quieter than fury and infinitely colder. “But not for my family. For you.”The line went dead. Marie sagged against the window, the city tilting beneath her.She'd wanted war. She had thought it would look like headlines and stock blips and a crowd eating her words up like bread. Instead it had looked like a child bundled in someone else's arms and a woman's voice saying, plainly and irrevocably, that she was not fit to be trusted with her own daughter.The maid came in again, whispering,
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