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They see us coming and one raises an eyebrow. I watch them dial the private microphone connecting them to their boss, presumably reporting on the situation.
“Both of you, get out of here,” I order them.
One of them looks at me with a haughty expression. “You're not the one giving orders here.”
“I am now,” I say with a confident smile, as the man grunts at me.
But at that instant, Brandon opens the door.
“Let them through,” he orders, and with another grunt, the bodyguard steps aside.
Brandon's gaze flickers over us as we enter the room, the air heavy with tension. The space is lavish, but it feels cold. I can almost taste the arrogance that hangs around him like a bad cologne.
Kristine's grip on my hand tightens for an instant before she lets go and strides forward, her posture straight, her head held high. She's the epitome of grace under pressure, and it makes my chest swell with pride.
“You look well, Krissy,” Brandon sneers, his voice dripping with insincerity.
“Cut the crap, Brandon,” she retorts without missing a beat. “We're here for Asher, and I told you to call me Kristine.”
Brandon chuckles, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Always so direct. But you're forgetting your placeandour deal.”
She steps closer to him, her olive eyes blazing. “My place is with my son. Not under your thumb.”
I remain silent but alert, ready to intervene if necessary. This is Kristine's fight. I'm just here to make sure she wins.
Brandon's smirk falters for a moment before he recovers. “You think you can just waltz in here and make demands? He's my son too.”
“I'm not making demands,” Kristine says coolly. “I'm here to make an offer.”
That catches him off guard. “An offer?” he echoes.
Kristine nods and places the briefcase on the table between them. It lands with a thud. She flips the latches with a click that echoes in the silence of the room.
I watch as Brandon's eyes widen ever so slightly when she opens it to reveal stacks of crisp bills and a sheaf of papers—a contract.
“One million dollars,” Kristine states firmly. “And a contract granting me full custody of Asher.”
Brandon leans forward, his greed bleeding through his chicken-shit skin. “You think you can buy me?”
“No,” she corrects him softly but with iron in her voice. “I'm buyingourfreedom.”
He glances at me, looking for an ally or maybe a weakness, but he finds none. I meet his gaze squarely, letting him see the solidarity between Kristine and me.
“And what makes you think I'd ever agree to this?” he challenges.
“Because you care more about money and power than you ever did about us,” Kristine says without hesitation. “This is your ticket to more campaigns, more influence... more control over everything but us.”
For a moment, silence stretches between them. Then Brandon reaches for the contract.
“You're willing to give up everything?” His voice is low, almost impressed.
“Everything but what matters,” she replies.
His pen hovers over the paper as he reads through the terms. I can see calculations running behind his eyes—weighing options, potential gains against losses.
Then he signs it with a flourish and slides it back to her.
Kristine doesn't blink as she snaps the briefcase shut and stands up straighter—if that's even possible.
