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As I drive, the phone starts ringing. I press the button on the steering wheel with my eyes fixed on the road ahead.
“Where are you going in such a hurry, Krissy?” greets Brandon's voice on the other end of the line.
Feeling chills, I try to ignore the revulsion his voice causes me and speed up. The lights in my rearview mirror capture my attention.
I glance and see Brandon's goon.Fuck.
“I was coming to see you,” I lie.
He bursts out laughing. “The world is so small.”
And you're the dirt on it, I think. “Where are you?”
“At the office,” Brandon replies.
“I'll come to your place. I'll meet you there.”
“Why my house?”
“Because I want to see my son,” I say flatly. I know he probably wants to object, but I don't care.
I've followed the rules. I've kept visiting Asher when Brandon allowed. But I'm sick and tired of him holding all of the cards. He won't keep me from my son, and I know if I stick around long enough, I'll find out what he's done to Ethan.
I drive until I reach the luxury hotel where Brandon is staying. He probably thinks it's temporary until he returns to our family home. But that's not happening.
I weave through the hotel's gilded lobby, the chandeliers above casting fractured light across marble floors. The bellboy, a young man with a rehearsed smile, ushers me to the elevator without question. The doors close with a whisper, and I ascend.
As the elevator dings at the penthouse suite, my heart hammers against my ribs. Two of Brandon's bodyguards stand outside the door, their eyes as cold as the steel they're likely packing under their jackets. I nod at them, feigning confidence I don't feel.
Inside, opulence suffocates simplicity—the suite sprawls before me like a scene from some old-world monarch's palace. Vaulted ceilings top walls adorned with intricate moldings and paintings that likely cost more than most people make in a lifetime.
A grand piano sits in one corner, silent and imposing. The space is too large, too empty, echoing with the hollowness of Brandon's promises. A shiver runs down my spine as I take in the pretentious display of wealth.
My gaze drifts to the panoramic windows, revealing the cityscape below. We're above it all here, yet it feels more like a gilded cage than a haven.
The scent of sandalwood and leather permeates the air, mixed with a hint of Brandon's cologne—a smell that once comforted me but now makes my stomach churn.
I move through the living area, where plush sofas and ornate rugs seem untouched by human presence. Everything is meticulous, staged, every cushion plumped to perfection.
I pause by a side table laden with crystal decanters filled with amber liquids and fine glassware. My fingers graze over a decanter. It's cool to the touch and grounded in reality, unlike everything else in this room that feels untouchable.
My heart races as I approach Brandon's private quarters. Every step closer to Asher intensifies my resolve. My son—the one pure thing left in this twisted game—is just beyond these walls. Each breath feels heavy with anticipation and fear. I can almost hear his laughter, see his bright eyes filled with innocence.
My visitations all happened in a public place. Places where reporters took staged pictures of “Brandon Prescott working to mend his marriage.”
“It's all a lie,” I whisper, feeling miles away from the life I've tried to create for Asher and me.
Far away from love. Far away from Ethan.
As I approach the door where I know Asher waits, I steel my resolve to face my greatest opponent, my ex-husband.
“Ma'am, you can't enter that room without Mr. Prescott's permission.” The guards step forward, blocking the door.
To look at them is to realize that I am stepping into the lion's den, but I don't care. I'm not the same woman.
“Step aside.” They look at me with raised eyebrows, and I sigh. “Brandon knows I'm here. I have an appointment with him.”
After a moment's hesitation, the big men nod and step aside.
