Chapter 3 3

Annemarie collapsed into the backseat of the yellow cab, pulling the door shut with a solid thunk. She buried her face in her hands, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Carlisle Bradford. Of all the law firms in Manhattan, she had walked into his.

"Where to, lady?" the cabbie asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

"P.S. 41," she choked out, giving the address of the private elementary school on the Upper East Side. "Please hurry."

The cab lurched into traffic. Annemarie pressed her back against the hot leather seat, trying to steady her racing pulse. The smell of the taxi-stale cigarettes and pine air freshener-was suffocating. She rolled down the window a crack, letting the chaotic noise of the city rush in. She needed to drown out the memory of Carlisle's cold, indifferent voice. He hated her. He truly, deeply hated her.

She looked at her reflection in the side mirror. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red and puffy. She grabbed a crumpled tissue from her coat pocket and scrubbed at her face, trying to erase the evidence of her breakdown. She had to hold it together. She couldn't let Clementine see her like this.

The taxi pulled up to the school gates twenty minutes later. The building was an elegant red-brick structure surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. A swarm of children in neat uniforms poured out the front doors, their joyful shouts filling the afternoon air. Nannies in crisp uniforms and mothers in designer athleisure wear chatted in small groups, waiting.

Annemarie paid the driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves. She smoothed down her trench coat and forced her face into a calm, welcoming mask.

She spotted Clementine almost immediately. The little girl was standing patiently beside her teacher, her arms wrapped around a large red rubber ball. Her dark hair was pulled back in two neat braids, and her uniform skirt swished as she kicked at a pebble.

"Mama!" Clementine shrieked, spotting Annemarie through the gate. She dropped the teacher's hand and sprinted forward.

Annemarie dropped to her knees just inside the gate, catching the little girl in a tight embrace. She buried her face in Clementine's neck, inhaling the sweet, familiar scent of baby shampoo and crayons. This was her anchor. This was the only thing that mattered.

"Hi, baby," Annemarie murmured, squeezing her tight.

"Mommy, you're squishing me," Clementine giggled, squirming in her arms.

Annemarie laughed, a watery sound, and pulled back. She cupped her daughter's face in her hands, intending to kiss her forehead, when the world suddenly stopped.

The afternoon sun was shining directly onto Clementine's face, illuminating her features with startling clarity. Annemarie froze, her lips hovering inches from her daughter's skin.

Clementine's eyes were a deep, piercing amber. They weren't just brown; they were a specific shade of molten gold that caught the light in a way that was entirely unique. Annemarie had seen that exact color just an hour ago, glaring at her with six years of repressed fury across a boardroom table.

Annemarie's breath hitched. She traced a trembling finger along her daughter's jawline. It was delicate, yes, but there was a stubborn, sharp angularity to it that contradicted her soft baby fat. It was a perfect miniature replica of Carlisle's stubborn jaw.

The realization hit her like a physical blow to the chest. She had spent the last five years willfully ignoring the passing resemblance, convincing herself that babies looked like everyone. But today, after seeing Carlisle in the flesh, the resemblance was undeniable. A living, breathing ghost was standing right in front of her.

"Mommy?" Clementine asked, tilting her head. "Are you okay? Your hands are cold."

Annemarie snatched her hands back, her heart hammering against her ribs. If she could see it now, so clearly, anyone else could too. If Carlisle ever got close enough to look-really look-at this child, the game was over. He would take her away. He would use her to punish Annemarie for her lies.

"We have to go, sweetheart," Annemarie said, her voice tight. She stood up abruptly, grabbing Clementine's hand.

"But my ball," Clementine protested, pointing to the red rubber ball lying on the ground.

"I'll get it," Annemarie said, snatching it up. She tucked the ball under her arm and practically dragged her daughter down the sidewalk, away from the other mothers, away from the prying eyes she suddenly felt everywhere.

"Mommy, you're walking too fast!" Clementine whined, her little legs struggling to keep pace.

Annemarie slowed down marginally, her mind racing. She pulled out her phone and dialed the only person in the world she trusted. It rang twice before clicking.

"Jazmine Parker speaking," the crisp voice answered.

"Jaz," Annemarie sobbed, unable to hold it in any longer. "I need to come over. Right now. Please."

There was a brief pause. "My apartment. Twenty minutes. I'll order coffee."

Annemarie hung up and hailed another cab, bundling Clementine inside. She clutched her daughter's hand the entire ride downtown, staring blankly out the window at the city that was slowly crushing her.