Chapter 6 No.6

Three days later, Lily was discharged.

Emelie didn't wait for the driver. She took the keys to the Range Rover and drove to the private school herself.

It was pickup time. A line of luxury SUVs snaked around the block.

Emelie pulled up to the front.

But someone was already there.

A bright red Porsche convertible was parked in the loading zone. Eleanora was leaning against it, wearing oversized sunglasses, chatting with two other mothers. She looked like the Queen Bee holding court.

Emelie felt the heat rise in her neck.

She didn't honk. She pulled the Range Rover around, jumped the curb slightly, and parked directly in front of the Porsche, boxing it in.

She killed the engine and stepped out.

She was wearing a sharp white blazer and stilettos. She slammed the door shut.

The chatter stopped. The other mothers turned to stare.

Eleanora lowered her sunglasses. Her smile faltered. "Emelie? What are you doing here?"

Emelie walked up to her, towering over Eleanora in her heels.

"I'm picking up my daughter," Emelie said loudly. Her voice carried over the quiet street. "The real question is, what are you doing here? You aren't on the authorized pickup list."

Eleanora laughed nervously, glancing at the other mothers. "I was just... Clifton asked me to..."

"Clifton isn't here," Emelie cut her off. She took a step closer. "And neither is your dignity. Stay away from my child, Eleanora. If I see you here again, I will file a restraining order. And I will make sure every parent in this school knows why."

The other mothers gasped. This was Upper East Side warfare, live and uncut.

Eleanora's face flushed a deep, ugly red. "You're threatening me?"

"I'm promising you," Emelie smiled. It was a shark's smile.

The school doors opened. Children poured out.

Lily ran out, her backpack bouncing. She scanned the crowd. She saw Eleanora and started to run toward her.

Then she saw Emelie.

Lily stopped. She looked unsure.

Emelie didn't rush her. She knelt down on the sidewalk, ignoring the dirt on her expensive pants.

"Lily-bug," Emelie called out softly. "I made chocolate chip cookies. The kind with the extra chunks. And I bought the sprinkles."

Eleanora opened her mouth to speak.

Emelie shot her a look so venomous it could have killed a plant. Don't you dare.

Lily looked at Eleanora, then at Emelie. The promise of sugar and the sight of her mother on her knees, waiting, tipped the scales.

Lily ran to Emelie.

Emelie caught her, burying her face in Lily's hair. "Gotcha."

She stood up, holding Lily tight, and walked back to her car without a backward glance at the Porsche.

Back at the penthouse, the atmosphere changed.

Emelie dismissed the staff. "I'm cooking."

She took Lily into the massive, pristine kitchen that was rarely used. She poured flour onto the island.

"Okay, make a mess," Emelie ordered.

Lily giggled. She threw a handful of flour into the air.

For an hour, they were just mother and daughter. No sickness. No mistress. Just dough and chocolate.

"Mommy?" Lily asked, licking a spoon. "Auntie El said you were busy. She said she was going to be my new mommy."

Emelie froze. She gripped the edge of the counter.

She forced herself to relax. She turned to Lily and wiped a smudge of flour off her nose.

"Auntie El tells stories," Emelie said gently. "But here is the truth: You only have one mommy. And that's me. And nobody can ever replace me. Ever."

"Okay," Lily said simply, accepting the truth as children do. "Can I have another cookie?"

"Yes."

The front door opened. Clifton walked in.

He stopped in the kitchen doorway, stunned. The air smelled of vanilla and baked sugar. Emelie had flour on her cheek.

It was a scene of domestic warmth he hadn't seen in years.

"Daddy!" Lily ran to him with a cookie. "Mommy made them!"

Clifton took the cookie, looking at Emelie with a strange expression. Confusion? Regret?

"I didn't know you baked," he said.

"There's a lot you don't know," Emelie said. She washed her hands in the sink, scrubbing them hard.

"This is nice," Clifton said, looking around. "It feels... like a home."

Emelie turned off the faucet. She dried her hands on a towel and looked at him.

"Don't get used to it," she said coldly. "I did this for her. Not for you."

She untied her apron and threw it on the counter.

"I'm taking Lily up for her bath. Dinner is in the oven. Serve yourself."

She walked past him, leaving him standing alone in the warm, sweet-smelling kitchen holding a half-eaten cookie.