At the moment I held my newborn, my mother-in-law tossed divorce papers onto my hospital bed and told me to sign, while my husband stared at his watch like I didn’t matter. They thought I was powerless. They didn’t know the hospital, the money, and the entire battlefield belonged to me.

He was staring out at the parking lot, his knuckles white as he gripped the windowsill.

He was wearing the navy-blue Armani suit Beatrice, his mother, had picked out for him.

He always looked impeccable, but today his posture screamed cowardice.

“Richard.”

A sharp, icy voice cut through the silence. Beatrice Thornton stepped out from the shadows near the door.

The matriarch of the Thornton real estate empire was dressed as if she were attending a board meeting, not the birth of her first grandchild.

Her pearls were real, her Chanel suit was tailored to within an inch of its life, and her expression was that of someone who had just stepped in something unpleasant.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, Evelyn,” Beatrice commanded.