Chapter 78 No
Andrew nodded— once—small, curt.
Then turned— walked back toward the door.
Amelia waited on the porch— arms crossed, smile cool.
Andrew stepped outside— closed the door behind him.
Amelia tilted her head. “Well?”
Andrew exhaled— slow. “He’s in there. She’s crying. Crying pathetically.”
Amelia’s smile sharpened. “Good.”
Andrew looked back at the closed door— expression unreadable.
“Let’s go in.”
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The grand double doors of the mansion swung open with a low, resonant creak, admitting the late-morning light that sliced across the polished marble foyer in long golden blades. Andrew strode in first, shoulders squared beneath the charcoal cashmere of his crew neck, his left hand firmly clasped around Amelia’s. Their fingers were laced tight— possessive, practiced, the kind of grip that announced ownership without a single word. Amelia’s crimson heels clicked in perfect counterpoint to his measured steps, her chin tilted at that exact angle that made every room feel smaller.
Inside, the vast open-plan living area stretched before them like a cathedral of wealth: thirty-foot ceilings, walls of smoked glass overlooking the darkening woods, a massive limestone fireplace already crackling low. And there, in the center of the cream wool rug, Maggie knelt. Her arms were locked around Pete’s small frame, her face buried against his shoulder. Happy tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks, leaving glistening tracks that caught the firelight. She rocked him gently, whispering something soft and broken against his ear— words lost to the distance.
Then she lifted her head.
Her red-rimmed eyes widened as they landed first on the stranger beside her husband, then slid to Andrew, who walked confidently at her side. Maggie’s embrace loosened by degrees. Her fingers flexed against Pete’s back once, twice, before she finally let him go. She dragged the backs of both hands across her wet cheeks, wiping at the tears. Slowly, deliberately, she rose. Her knees cracked faintly from kneeling. She cleared her throat— sharp, once— and squared her shoulders, though the tremor in her lower lip betrayed her.
Andrew’s voice cut the silence first, calm and almost gentle.
“There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Maggie’s gaze flicked from him to Amelia and back again. She took one half-step forward, right hand already extending in the automatic motion of politeness.
Amelia regarded the offered hand without moving. Her lips curved— just the barest tilt.
“I don’t think we should do that yet,” she said. The words were quiet, crystalline, final.
Andrew turned his head toward the boy still clinging to Maggie’s side.
“Pete,” he said. No rise in volume, yet the command filled the room. “Go to your room. The adults want to have some grown-up discussions.”
Pete’s arms tightened around Maggie’s waist. His small face pressed harder against her hip. “No. I don’t want to go.”
Andrew’s jaw tightened a fraction. His voice dropped half an octave, velvet over steel.
“Listen to me now. If you don’t want me to take you away—”
“Listen to your daddy,” Maggie interrupted quickly. Her hand dropped to Pete’s head, fingers threading through his dark curls. She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s okay, baby. It's just for a little while. Go on.”
Pete looked up at her— searching, pleading— then at Andrew. The man’s expression hadn’t softened. After three long heartbeats, the boy’s shoulders slumped. He released Maggie’s waist, turned, and walked. Each step dragged. He disappeared around the curved mahogany staircase, he's sneakers scuffing the runner until the sound faded entirely.
Maggie watched the empty corner long after he was gone. When she finally turned back, her eyes were harder.
“Why the seriousness?” she asked Andrew. “Who is she?”
Andrew gestured toward the long sectional sofa where Maggie had knelt earlier. “You’ll need to sit down for this.”
She raised an eyebrow— half disbelief, half defiance— but complied. The leather sighed under her weight. Andrew indicated the opposite sofa with the same casual flick of his wrist. Amelia moved first, gliding across the rug with liquid grace. She sank down, crossed her legs at the knee, the silk of her dress whispering against itself. Posture perfect. Hands folded lightly in her lap.
Maggie’s voice cracked the silence again. “What’s happening? What's all this about?”
Andrew remained standing between the two women, hands in his pockets, weight balanced evenly.
“Instead of telling you,” he said, “let me show you.”
“Show me what?” Maggie’s brows knit. “What are you saying?”
“Just chill.” He offered the smallest smile— reassuring on the surface, something colder beneath. “Everything is about to be clear in a minute. Give me a second to retrieve a document from the trunk. That’s going to make you less confused about what’s happening right now.”
Maggie leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Did something bad happen?”
“No.” Andrew was already turning toward the entrance. “Just let me fetch it from the car.”