I never told my ex-husband and his wealthy family that I was the secret owner of their employer’s multi-billion dollar company. They thought I was a ‘broke, pregnant charity case.’ At a family dinner, my ex-mother-in-law ‘accidentally’ dumped a bucket of ice water on my head to humiliate me, laughing, ‘At least you finally got a bath.’ I sat there dripping wet. Then, I pulled out my phone and sent a single text: ‘Initiate Protocol 7.’ 10 minutes later, they were on their knees begging.
The ice water hit me so suddenly that I didn’t even have time to flinch. One moment, I was sitting at the dinner table, surrounded by crystal glasses and fine china, pretending not to notice the sneers and the whispered jabs. The next, I was drenched—freezing, gasping, my clothes clinging to my skin as the water trickled down my arms and pooled at my feet. For a second, the shock was so complete it numbed me. Then came the laughter.
“Oh, look at that,” Diane said, her voice dripping with triumph as she set down the empty bucket. “At least you finally got a bath.”
Her son—my ex-husband, Brendan—let out a low, mocking chuckle. “Mom,” he said, half-laughing, half-pleading for her approval, “you’re going to give her hypothermia.”
His new girlfriend, Jessica, tilted her head, smiling the way people do when they know cruelty will win them favor. “Make sure she doesn’t use the good towels,” she said, wrinkling her nose in fake disgust. “We don’t want that smell on the Egyptian cotton.”
The sound of their laughter bounced off the marble walls of the Morrisons’ grand dining room. The chandelier’s light glinted off my soaked hair, and the icy water dripped onto the ornate Persian rug that covered the floor. I had personally approved the purchase of that rug three years ago, back when I was still their daughter-in-law—back when they didn’t know who I really was.
I didn’t move. I didn’t even look up at them. The cold settled deep into my bones, but my mind was burning. They thought I would cry. They thought I would stand up, humiliated, make some excuse, and leave in tears. That was what they expected of Cassidy—the “broke, pregnant charity case” they had so graciously “tolerated.”
They didn’t know that Cassidy was a name I used, not an identity I depended on.
Diane laughed again, louder this time, clearly proud of herself. “Oh, come now,” she said, turning toward Brendan. “Be a gentleman. Give her twenty dollars for a cab. Or better yet—walk her out. I’m done looking at her.”
Brendan smirked, glancing at Jessica. “Yeah, sure,” he said casually. “Let’s not make a scene.”
Their laughter filled the room again. I let it wash over me, steadying myself in the calm eye of their storm. And then, without saying a word, I reached into my purse. The dripping sound of melting ice hitting the floor filled the sudden silence as I pulled out my phone.
Jessica’s eyes followed my hand. “Who are you calling?” she asked with a laugh. “The welfare office? It’s Sunday, sweetheart—they’re closed.”
“Probably one of those online counseling hotlines,” Brendan added, smirking. “You’ve been emotional lately. Hormones, right?”
I ignored them. My thumb hovered over a name in my contacts list. Arthur – EVP Legal.
I pressed the button and brought the phone to my ear. The line connected almost immediately. “Cassidy?” Arthur’s voice came through, sharp, concerned, and professional. “Are you alright?”
I looked across the table at Diane. Her smirk faltered slightly as our eyes met. “Arthur,” I said, my voice low but clear, cutting through the chatter like glass breaking. “Execute Protocol Seven.”
There was a pause on the line—one heartbeat, then two.
“Protocol Seven?” Arthur repeated, his tone suddenly grave. “Cassidy, are you sure? That order will freeze every Morrison account, revoke their contracts, and trigger the board review. They’ll lose everything within the hour.”
“I’m sure,” I said quietly, still holding Diane’s gaze. “Effective immediately.”
Arthur didn’t argue. “Understood,” he said after a beat. “I’ll initiate it now.”
I hung up and set the phone gently on the table beside the wine glass, droplets of water running down my wrist and soaking into the pristine white linen napkin. The sound of the phone clicking onto the tabletop seemed to echo through the room.
Brendan blinked at me, confusion flickering across his face. “Protocol what?” he said, laughing nervously. “Is that, like… some kind of sci-fi thing? Are you threatening us with Star Trek now?”
“She’s hallucinating,” Diane said dismissively, waving her hand as if shooing away a fly. “Honestly, Brendan, I told you she was unstable. That’s why you left her, isn’t it? She’s not even making sense anymore. Cassidy, dear, why don’t you get up and go home?”
I reached for the napkin, folding it neatly before dabbing the water from my face. My movements were calm, deliberate, almost too calm. Then I smiled—a small, cold smile that didn’t reach my eyes.
“I’m not leaving yet,” I said softly, my tone even and deliberate. “We haven’t had dessert.”
The room went quiet. The kind of silence that makes people look around at each other, unsure of what they’re supposed to feel.
Diane’s fingers tightened around her wine glass. Brendan’s smirk began to fade, and for the first time, I saw uncertainty flicker behind his eyes. Jessica’s smile froze in place, her hand hovering near her throat.
The clock ticked on the wall—one, two, three seconds. The soft buzz of the chandelier filled the air.
I sat there, water dripping from my hair onto the rug, my hands resting calmly on the table. From the outside, I probably looked ridiculous—drenched, humiliated, still trying to play it cool. But inside, the calm that settled over me was surgical. Precise. Controlled.
They had no idea what I had just set in motion.
I had spent the last three years living quietly after the divorce, playing the part of the woman they thought I was: struggling, invisible, forgettable. They never asked how I paid rent, how I afforded my medical bills, or why my lawyer could outmatch any of theirs without breaking a sweat. They didn’t care enough to notice.
But before I was Mrs. Morrison, before Brendan swept me into his family’s world of designer suits and cocktail parties, I had built something on my own. A company. A quiet empire. One that operated through subsidiaries, shell corporations, and holding groups so complex that even Brendan’s family’s attorneys didn’t know where their payroll really came from.
They worked for me. Every check, every dividend, every “family investment” they bragged about at dinners like this—it all traced back to me. And now, with one text, I had taken it all back.
Diane was still smiling, but it was thin now, strained. “Well,” she said, forcing a laugh, “if you’re waiting for dessert, you’ll be disappointed. We didn’t make enough for guests.”
I smiled back, meeting her gaze. “That’s alright,” I said softly. “You’ve already given me exactly what I needed.”
For a moment, no one spoke. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence. Somewhere down the hall, the grandfather clock began to chime.
I leaned back in my chair, watching their faces—smiles fading, confidence flickering, fear beginning to creep in at the edges.
The water beneath my chair was starting to dry, the last droplets glimmering under the chandelier.
Diane cleared her throat, lifting her chin. “I don’t know what game you think you’re playing,” she said sharply, her voice cracking just slightly on the last word.
I reached for my glass of water and took a slow sip, the ice clinking softly against the crystal. “Game?” I repeated quietly. “No, Diane. This isn’t a game.”
And that was when the first phone started to ring.
I didn’t look at it. I didn’t have to. I already knew.
I set my glass down, the sound crisp and final against the table. Then I smiled—small, calm, and patient—as the second phone began to buzz.
And the third.
The air in the room shifted, thick with confusion, with dawning realization, with something that almost felt like fear.
I folded the damp napkin neatly beside my plate and met each of their eyes in turn.
“I told you,” I said softly. “I’m not leaving yet.”
Then I leaned back in my chair and waited.
Continue below
The invitation arrived on heavy cream cardstock, framed as an olive branch. Brendan had pleaded on the phone, his voice thick with a performance of sincerity I had once mistaken for love. He said his mother, Diane Morrison, wanted to “bury the hatchet” for the sake of the baby. He said it was time we acted like a family again.
I stared at my reflection in the chipped hallway mirror of my cramped rental apartment. Six months pregnant, dark circles carved deep under my eyes, wearing a maternity dress that had been washed until the fabric was thinning at the seams. I looked exactly like the caricature they had drawn of me: the struggling, discarded ex-wife who had crumbled under the weight of their expectations.
I agreed to go. Not because I wanted to sit at their table, but because a foolish, hormonal fragment of my heart still hoped that the impending arrival of a grandson might melt the permafrost of their souls.
The drive to the estate in Greenwich, Connecticut, was a journey through muscle memory. My hands trembled against the steering wheel of my battered Honda. I knew every curve of this driveway. I knew the provenance of the Italian marble in the foyer. I knew the exorbitant maintenance costs of the landscaping. I knew it all because, on paper, I had approved the funds for every single shrub and slate tile three years ago.
But to them? To the Morrisons? I was just Cassidy. The girl from the “wrong side of the tracks” who got lucky, got pregnant, and then got dumped when the novelty wore off.
When I walked through the double oak doors, the air was suffocating, thick with the scent of tuberose and judgment.
Brendan opened the door. He didn’t hug me. He barely glanced at the swell of my stomach. Behind him, looming like a spectre in silk, stood her. Jessica. Young, glowing with the arrogance of the replacement, wearing a designer dress that cost more than my car. Her hand rested possessively on Brendan’s forearm, a staking of territory.
“Oh, look,” Diane’s voice sliced through the room, sharp as a serrated knife. She was posed by the fireplace, a martini glass dangling from her fingers. “The charity case has arrived. And she’s getting… immense, isn’t she?”
The room erupted in polite, cruel titters.
I kept my chin parallel to the floor, walking into the dining room. I took the seat they pointed to—a metal folding chair squeezed into the corner, segregated from the fine china and the high-backed velvet seats. Throughout the first course, the insults arrived disguised as concern.
“Are you eating enough, dear? You look pasty. I suppose fresh produce is hard to come by on your… limited budget,” Diane sneered, picking at her salad.
“We just want what’s best for the baby,” Brendan added, refusing to meet my eyes, focusing instead on his wine. “Maybe it’s better if he stays with us full-time once he’s born. You know… considering your unstable housing situation.”
A cold dread coiled in my gut. They weren’t just being cruel; they were strategizing. They were planning to take my child.
But the breaking point wasn’t the words. It was the dessert course.
Diane stood up to clear the table. She picked up a silver bucket of ice water, a slurry of melted frost from the champagne chiller. As she passed behind my chair, she “tripped.”
It wasn’t an accident. I saw the glint in her eye a second before it happened.
The freezing, dirty water cascaded over my head, soaking my hair, ruining my dress, and shocking my unborn baby into a flurry of kicks. The cold hit my skin like a physical blow, but the laughter that followed hit my soul harder.
“Oops,” Diane smirked, not even attempting a pantomime of apology. “Well, look at the bright side. At least you finally got a bath.”
Brendan laughed. Jessica giggled behind her manicured hand.
I sat there, dripping wet, shivering, surrounded by the people who had vowed to be my family. They thought this was the moment I would break. They were waiting for the tears, the begging, the hasty retreat out the back door.
Instead, a strange, icy calm settled over me. It was the clarity of a soldier who realizes the diplomacy is over.
I reached into my soaking wet purse and pulled out my phone.
The water dripped from the hem of my dress onto the expensive Persian rug—a rug I knew retailed for twelve thousand dollars because I had signed the expense report for “office decor” when Brendan claimed he needed a home office to be “more productive.”
The silence in the room shifted. It wasn’t the silence of remorse; it was the silence of anticipation. They were watching the zoo animal, waiting for it to run.
Diane stood over me, the silver ice bucket still dangling from her hand. A single cube of ice slid from my shoulder and hit the floor with a wet thud.
“Well?” Diane said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Don’t just sit there dripping, Cassidy. You’re ruining the hardwood. Honestly, Brendan, I don’t know why you thought bringing her here was a good idea. She clearly doesn’t know how to behave in a civilized environment.”
“Mom, just… let her get a towel or something,” Brendan mumbled, studying his loafers.
“A towel?” Jessica chirped, taking a sip of my wine. “Make sure it’s one of the old ones, Diane. We don’t want her getting that… smell on the Egyptian cotton.”
I didn’t move. I didn’t wipe the dirty water from my face. I just sat there, the screen of my phone glowing against my wet palm. My heart pounded, not from fear, but from the adrenaline of pulling the trigger.
I unlocked the screen. My thumb hovered over the contact list.
“Who are you calling?” Jessica laughed. “The welfare office? I think they’re closed on Sundays, honey.”
“Maybe she’s calling a cab,” Diane sighed, signaling the server for a refill. “Brendan, give her twenty dollars so she can leave. I’m tired of looking at her.”
I pressed the contact labeled “Arthur – EVP Legal.”
It rang once.
“Cassidy?” Arthur’s voice was sharp, professional. He was one of the three people in the world who knew the truth. “It’s late. Is everything alright? Is it the baby?”
I took a breath. The air in the room smelled of roasted duck and expensive perfume, masking the rot underneath.
“The baby is fine, Arthur,” I said, my voice steady, cutting through the ambient chatter of the dining room.
The table went quiet. They were confused by my tone. It wasn’t the voice of Cassidy, the struggling artist. It was the voice of the Chairman of the Board.
“I need you to execute Protocol 7,” I said calmly.
Arthur paused. He knew what that meant. It was the ‘Nuclear Option’ we had drafted during the pre-nuptial phase—a clause I swore I would never use unless my safety or dignity was irrevocably compromised.
“Protocol 7? Cassidy, are you sure? That initiates immediate asset freezes, termination of employment for cause, and eviction notices for all company-held properties. It’s… catastrophic for them.”
“I am sure,” I said, my eyes locking with Brendan’s. He frowned, looking at me like I was speaking a foreign language. “Effective immediately. I want their access cards deactivated within ten minutes. I want the company accounts linked to the Morrison family suspended. And Arthur? Send the severance notification to their personal emails. Now.”
“Understood,” Arthur said. “I’m waking up the IT director. Give me fifteen minutes to propagate the changes through the system.”
“You have ten,” I said, and hung up.
I lowered the phone and placed it gently on the table, right next to the crystal wine glass I wasn’t allowed to drink from.
“Protocol 7?” Brendan scoffed, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips. “What is that? Some kind of sci-fi movie you’re watching? God, Cassidy, you’re so weird.”
“She’s probably hallucinating,” Diane said, waving her hand. “Pregnancy hormones make lower-class women hysterical. Now, get up.”
I didn’t get up. I reached for a linen napkin—embroidered with a crest they didn’t earn—and slowly wiped the grease and water from my face.
“I’m not leaving yet,” I said softly. “We haven’t had dessert.”
To understand the gravity of the silence that followed, you have to understand the Lie.
I met Brendan four years ago. I was twenty-six, tired of being “The Heiress,” tired of men seeing a walking bank account instead of a human being. My father had built Vanguard Global, a logistics empire, from the ground up. When he passed, he left it all to me.
I wanted to be loved for me. So, I lied. I told Brendan I was a freelance designer. I told him I had student loans.
I fell in love with the version of himself he presented. He told me he worked for a “massive logistics firm.” It was only three months in that I realized he worked for my company. A mid-level manager.
I thought it was fate. I kept the secret, planning a grand reveal. But then the cracks appeared. The entitlement. The spending. The mother. The affair with Jessica, an intern I had hired two years ago because her resume looked desperate.
I had maintained the lie even after the separation because I wanted to see how low they would go.
Tonight, I found the bottom.
“So,” Jessica said, trying to break the tension I had created. “Brendan, tell your mom about the promotion!”
My ears perked up. Promotion?
Brendan straightened his tie. “Right! The VP of Operations hinted that the Regional Director spot is opening up next week. That’s a three-hundred-thousand-dollar base salary. I’m basically a shoo-in.”
“Oh, finally!” Diane clapped. “Someone with the Morrison name getting the recognition they deserve. See, Cassidy? This is what success looks like.”
“I wouldn’t count on that promotion, Brendan,” I said quietly.
Brendan rolled his eyes. “Jealousy is ugly, Cass.”
“I heard the owner is… very particular about ethics,” I said. “And misuse of company funds.”
“Nobody even knows who the owner is,” Jessica scoffed. “It’s some shell company. Besides, I have the VP wrapped around my finger.”
Buzz.
Brendan’s phone, sitting on the table, lit up.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Then Jessica’s phone. Then the iPad on the counter. Then the smart home system.
“What is going on?” Diane demanded.
Brendan grabbed his phone. “Probably the guys blowing up the group chat.” He unlocked the screen.
I watched the color drain from his face. I watched his eyes widen, then squint, then widen again in sheer, unadulterated panic.
“It’s… it’s my email,” Brendan stammered. “I’m locked out. Account Disabled.”
“Mine too,” Jessica whispered, tapping furiously. “Credentials Invalid. What the hell?”
“And… I just got a notification from the bank,” Brendan’s voice trembled. “My corporate Amex just got declined. The lease payment bounced.”
He looked at me. “You… did you report me to the IRS?”
“I called Arthur,” I said.
Brendan froze. “Arthur Penhaligon? The EVP of Legal? He operates out of Chicago. You’ve never even been to Chicago.”
“I have a lovely office there,” I smiled. “Top floor. Check your personal email, Brendan.”
He swiped to his Gmail. He read in silence.
“Terminated for cause,” he whispered. “Violation of company ethics. Gross misconduct. Misuse of company funds.” He looked up, tears forming. “No severance?”
“Keep reading.”
“You are hereby ordered to vacate the premises located at 142 Willow Creek Lane within twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty-four hours?!” Diane screamed. “This is my home!”
“It’s the company’s home, Diane,” I said, standing up. “Brendan didn’t buy it. It’s a corporate retreat. He pays subsidized rent.”
“My full name,” I said, stepping closer to the table, my voice ringing with authority, “is Cassidy Vanguard-Morrison. My father was Thomas Vanguard.”
The silence was heavy enough to crush bones.
“Vanguard?” Diane gasped. “Like… the name on the building?”
“The name on the building. The name on the checks. The name on the deed to this house,” I said. “I own Vanguard Holdings. I own the warehouse you work in, Brendan. I own the car you drive, Jessica. I own the chair you are sitting in, Diane.”
“No,” Brendan shook his head, denial washing over him. “You clip coupons. You drive a Honda.”
“I wanted to be sure you loved me,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “I wanted to believe a family could accept me with nothing.” I gestured to my wet dress. “Tonight, you gave me my answer.”
I picked up my purse. “Security will be here at 8:00 AM to change the locks. Anything left behind will be donated to charity.”
“Cassidy, please!” Jessica threw herself at my feet. “I didn’t know! Brendan told me you were abusive! I have student loans!”
“You should have thought about that before you threw dirty looks at a pregnant woman,” I said, pulling my hand away.
I walked to the door.
“Wait!” Brendan screamed. “I’m the father of your child! You can’t leave me like this! We’re married! Half of this is mine!”
I laughed, a dry, dark sound. “The prenup, Brendan. The one your mother forced me to sign. Section 15: In the event of infidelity, the cheating spouse forfeits all claims.“
I opened the heavy oak door. Outside, a black town car had just pulled up. A driver in a suit stepped out. It was Arthur.
“Mrs. Vanguard,” Arthur said, opening the back door. “I brought a warm blanket.”
I climbed in, leaving the screams of the Morrisons echoing in the foyer.
The car ride to the city was a blur of rain and neon. I sat in the back, wrapped in cashmere, my hand resting on my belly. Freedom tasted like ash and exhaustion.
“We’re going to the Penthouse,” Arthur said gently. “I’ve called Dr. Evans to check the baby.”
But when we arrived at the underground garage of the Millennium Tower, something was wrong.
There was a vintage 1960s Jaguar parked in my private spot.
My heart stopped. I knew that car.
A man stepped out. He was older, silver-haired, wearing a suit that cost more than the GDP of a small nation. Elias Thorne. My father’s biggest rival. The shark who had tried to buy Vanguard three times.
He watched my car pull up and smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile.
I rolled down the window. “Elias. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I saw the news, Cassidy,” Elias said, his voice like velvet over gravel. “Word travels fast. Firing the husband. The embezzlement. Majestic.”
“If you’re here to gloat, leave.”
“I’m not here to gloat. I’m here to warn you.” He leaned in. “You think Brendan was smart enough to set up those shell companies by himself? The boy is an idiot.”
I frowned. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying someone helped him,” Elias said, his eyes glinting. “Someone on your Board. Someone who wanted to weaken Vanguard from the inside so the stock price would drop enough for a hostile takeover.”
My blood ran cold. “Who?”
“Watch your back, kid,” Elias said, tapping the roof of my car. “The wolves are real. And they’re already in the house.”
He got back into his Jaguar and roared away.
I looked at Arthur. For the first time, he looked scared. “We have to go upstairs. Now.”
The war wasn’t over. The battle with Brendan was just a skirmish. The real war for my legacy had just begun.
The penthouse became a war room. We didn’t sleep.
I called in the “Ghosts”—a team of forensic accountants my father had kept on retainer. They arrived at 2:00 AM.
“Find the link,” I ordered. “Connect Brendan’s shell companies to a member of the Board.”
For six hours, the only sounds were mechanical keyboards and the hum of servers. I sat on the sofa with a heating pad, feeling the baby kick. Hold on, little one. Mommy has one more monster to slay.
At 8:15 AM, the lead analyst spun her laptop around. “Got him.”
On the screen was a web of transactions. Brendan’s fake company had funneled 60% of its stolen funds into a blind trust in the Caymans.
“Who owns the trust?” Arthur asked.
The analyst hit a key. M.H. Holdings.
“Marcus Halloway,” I whispered.
Arthur gasped. “Your godfather? The Chairman of the Board?”
“He pushed for Brendan,” I realized, pacing the room. “He encouraged the marriage. He wanted me distracted. He wanted me ‘docile’ while he stripped the company for parts.”
“He has a massive short position on Vanguard stock,” the analyst added. “He’s betting on the company collapsing today after the scandal.”
I stood up. A sharp pain flared in my lower back, but I ignored it.
“He wants the stock to tank?” I said, a cold smile forming. “Then let’s disappoint him.”
“Arthur,” I commanded. “Draft a memo. Top secret. Eyes only for the Board. Subject: Project Phoenix. State that I have secured a private merger with Amazon closing at noon today.”
“But that’s a lie,” Arthur said. “That’s market manipulation.”
“It’s a barium meal test,” I said. “If he leaks it, we have him for corporate espionage.”
At 9:00 AM, the memo went out.
At 9:15 AM, our monitors showed Marcus Halloway downloading the file, encrypting it, and sending it to a reporter at the Financial Times. Then, we intercepted a call to his broker.
“Sell everything! She’s lying about the merger! Tank the price before noon!”
“Got him,” Arthur said. “Insider trading. Betrayal.”
I grabbed my coat. “Let’s go to the office.”
I walked into the boardroom at 10:30 AM. Marcus Halloway was sitting at the head of the table—my seat. He looked smug.
“Cassidy,” he said, standing up with a fake smile. “You shouldn’t be here. You look… exhausted. Think of the baby.”
“Get out of my chair, Marcus,” I said.
The room went silent.
“Excuse me?”
“I said, get out of my chair.”
I walked to the head of the table. He hesitated, then moved aside, chuckling condescendingly. “You’re emotional. We understand.”
“Yes,” I said, placing a folder on the table. “But you, Marcus? You are a catastrophe.”
I nodded to Arthur. He turned on the large monitor. The email chain with Brendan. The Cayman transfers. The recording of his call to the broker.
Marcus turned the color of old ash. “This… this is entrapment!”
“It’s justice,” I said. “You funded my husband’s affair. You stole from my father’s legacy. And you did it while pretending to be family.”
I turned to the security guards. “The FBI is waiting in the lobby. Escort him out.”
Two guards grabbed Marcus. He kicked and screamed, a dignified old man reduced to a tantrum.
As the doors closed, the room was silent. I looked at the remaining Board members. “Anyone else think I’m just a pregnant housewife?”
Silence.
“Good. Now let’s get back to work. We have a—”
Pop.
A rush of warm fluid soaked my skirt. A contraction hit me like a freight train, stealing the breath from my lungs. I gripped the mahogany table, my knuckles white.
“Cassidy?” Arthur stepped forward.
“Oh,” I whispered, looking down at the puddle on the carpet. “I think… I think I just broke the water.”
The irony wasn’t lost on me. Two days ago, Diane had thrown water on me. Today, my body was reclaiming the narrative.
They rushed me to Mount Sinai. Arthur held my hand the entire way.
There was no husband to coach me. No mother-in-law to take photos. Just me. And that terrified me.
“I can’t do it alone,” I cried out in the delivery room.
“You just fired the entire corrupt leadership of a Fortune 500 company,” Arthur said, wiping my forehead. “You are the strongest person I know. Decide.”
I decided.
At 2:42 PM, on a rainy Monday, Thomas Arthur Vanguard entered the world. He was loud, indignant, and perfect.
I had dropped the “Morrison.” My son would not carry the name of a thief. He would carry the name of a builder.
Six months later, I stood by the penthouse window, holding Thomas. The stock was at an all-time high. Elias Thorne had stopped calling.
I received a letter from Upstate New York that morning.
Cass,
I signed the papers. You have full custody. I won’t fight it. Mom is working at a bakery in Queens. She hates it. I’m sorry. Just… tell him I existed.
– B
I folded the letter and put it in a drawer. I wouldn’t burn it. One day, Thomas would read it and decide for himself.
I looked in the mirror. I didn’t see the scared girl from the coffee shop. I didn’t see the humiliated wife covered in dishwater.
I saw Cassidy Vanguard. Mother. CEO. Survivor.
They had tried to bury me. They didn’t know I was a seed.
“Ready to go, Boss?” Arthur asked from the doorway.
I stepped into the elevator, holding my son tight. “I’m ready.”
