The Ex-Wife's Unforgiving Revenge

My fiancé, Grayson Malone, had me locked in a mental institution while I was pregnant. He stole our son, Adam, and let his mistress raise him as her own.

For six years, I survived in poverty, secretly raising our daughter, Ida-the one he never knew existed.

Our worlds finally collided at a school event. His mistress, Kiera, shoved Ida, whose head cracked against a metal chair. Her heart stopped.

In the ensuing panic, Grayson found a journal I "accidentally" dropped. It was his dead sister's diary, holding the truth that proved Kiera's lies had destroyed my entire family.

Now, consumed by guilt, he's begging for a second chance. He thinks he can buy my forgiveness. He has no idea I'm about to take everything from him, just like he did to me.

Chapter 1

Jillian Chapman POV:

My ex-husband, Grayson Malone, the man who had me locked away and stole my son, stood across the school gymnasium. He recognized my face but not the child clutching my hand. Our daughter. The one he never knew existed.

A shrill cry ripped through the noisy assembly. It was Adam, our son, his face contorted in a furious scowl. He was six, just like Ida. He shoved her. Hard.

Ida stumbled, her small body hitting the polished wooden floor with a thud. The thin dress she wore, patched from too many washes, offered no padding. A wave of gasps rippled through the parents gathered for the elementary school' s art fair.

"You're a cheat!" Adam yelled, pointing a finger at Ida. His voice was high-pitched, echoing his father' s booming authority, even at this age. "You copied my drawing!"

Ida, tears welling in her large, dark eyes-Grayson' s eyes-clutched a crayon drawing of a bluebird. It was identical to the one Adam held, only hers seemed to possess a deeper, richer hue.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a familiar rhythm of fear and fury. I rushed forward, my worn sneakers squeaking on the floor. I knelt beside Ida, pulling her close, checking for scrapes. Her breathing was shallow, a faint wheeze escaping her lips. The heart condition. Always the heart condition.

"Adam," a woman' s voice, sharp and saccharine, cut through the air. Kiera. Of course. She was always there, hovering like a shadow, reinforcing the lie. She smoothed Adam' s perfectly pressed uniform, sending a disdainful glance my way. "A Malone never stoops to such common antics."

Grayson, towering over everyone, finally moved. His eyes, the same piercing blue as Adam' s, locked onto mine. He looked older, sharper, more formidable. Six years. Six years since he' d ripped my world apart. He' d sculpted himself into the ruthless Wall Street magnate I always knew he could be, but the man standing before me was a stranger. A monstrous stranger.

I felt nothing but a cold, calculating emptiness. The pain was a dull ache now, buried deep beneath layers of survival. He was just another obstacle.

"Jillian," his voice was a low rumble, laced with a surprise he couldn' t quite hide. It was a practiced calm, the kind he used to pacify investors.

I didn' t answer. I simply helped Ida to her feet, wiping the dust from her dress. She leaned into me, her small hand gripping mine tightly.

"Adam, apologize," Grayson commanded, his gaze flicking between my daughter and me. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes as they lingered on Ida' s face. A ghost of familiarity, perhaps.

Adam merely stuck out his tongue at Ida, then hid behind Kiera' s silk-clad leg. Kiera offered me a tight, pitying smile. "Some children are just... naturally inclined to trouble, aren' t they, Jillian?"

I stood up, my gaze unwavering. "Ida is not trouble, Kiera. Adam merely lacks discipline." My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. "And a sense of originality, apparently."

Grayson stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "What is it you want, Jillian?" he asked, cutting straight to the chase, just as he always did in business.

"What I want," I began, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands, "is for my daughter to have the same opportunities as your son. A proper education. A stable life." My eyes met his. "And for that, I need resources."

He raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk playing on his lips. "Are you implying I owe you something?"

"I' m stating a fact," I corrected, my tone unwavering. "You created this situation. You took everything from me. Now, you will provide."

He paused, studying Ida. His gaze drifted to her hair, the same deep auburn as mine, then to the curve of her cheek, before snapping back to me. His eyes narrowed. A faint frown creased his brow.

"She... she looks familiar," he murmured, almost to himself. He took an involuntary step towards Ida, his hand partly extended.

My body tensed, an instinctual shield. I pulled Ida subtly behind my leg, creating a barrier. "Don' t touch her," I warned, my voice a low, fierce whisper.

"Why?" he pressed, his gaze piercing. "Is she... mine?"

The question hung in the air, a loaded accusation, a dangerous truth. I laughed, a harsh, brittle sound that drew stares from nearby parents. "Yours? After what you did to me? After you made sure I was locked away, pregnant and alone?" My voice rose, each word a venomous dart. "You think I' d willingly give birth to another one of your children?"

He flinched, the accusation hitting its mark. "You hated me," he stated, a strange mix of recognition and pain in his eyes. "You hated me enough to claw your way out of that... institution."

"Hate is too exhausting, Grayson," I lied, my voice dropping to a weary sigh. "I' m just tired. And I want what' s best for my daughter." I reached into my worn canvas bag, intending to pull out a tissue for Ida. My fingers brushed against a small, leather-bound journal. The journal. His sister' s journal.

I "accidentally" fumbled it. It slipped from my grasp, landing open on the floor between his polished leather shoes. The pages fluttered, revealing the elegant script within.

Grayson' s eyes, drawn by the movement, immediately fixed on the journal. Recognition, then a flash of intense emotion-grief, perhaps, or shock-crossed his face. It was an old, faded leather, inscribed with elegant calligraphy: For my dearest little brother, Grayson.

He bent down, his fingers hovering over the delicate pages. This was it. The first hook.

I seized the moment. "Come on, Ida. Let' s go." I scooped her up, ignoring Grayson entirely. We moved quickly through the growing crowd, heading for the exit.

"Jillian!" His voice cut through the clamor, sharp and insistent. It wasn' t a question; it was a command. He was following.

I didn' t look back. I could hear his rapid footsteps behind us, but I knew he wouldn' t catch me. Not yet. I knew Grayson. He was a shark. He' d sniff out the bait, but he' d take his time circling before he bit.

We were out the door, into the crisp autumn air. I risked a glance over my shoulder. He was standing on the steps, the journal clutched in his hand, his eyes scanning the distance where I' d disappeared. He looked lost, a powerful man momentarily undone by a scrap of the past. A triumphant smirk, fleeting and dark, touched my lips.

Ida stirred in my arms. "Mommy, why are you smiling?" she asked, her voice small and innocent. "And why are you so... shiny?"

I looked down at her, then caught my reflection in a storefront window. My eyes were burning, my cheeks flushed, my body electric with adrenaline. I looked almost healthy, almost vibrant. It was a stark contrast to the hollow-eyed woman I usually saw. The woman who survived on stale bread and stolen moments of rest.

"It' s nothing, sweetie," I murmured, pulling her closer. My smile faded, replaced by the familiar mask of weariness. "Just... a trick of the light."

"Who was that man, Mommy?" Ida asked, her tiny hand tracing the outline of my jaw. "The one who looked like Adam?"

My breath hitched. She was five years old, but sharp as a tack. She always had been. "He was... a man from a very long time ago," I said, choosing my words carefully. "He made a lot of bad choices."

"But he looked like Adam. And he looked like me too, a little," she insisted, her gaze thoughtful. Ida inherited Grayson' s striking features, softened by my own. It was a cruel twist of fate, a constant reminder of the past.

"He' s nothing to us, Ida," I stated firmly, though the words tasted like ash. "He' s just... a bridge we need to cross to get to where we need to be."

We walked for what felt like miles, the weight of Ida in my arms growing heavier with each step. My old injuries, the ones I' d sustained during my escape, throbbed in my hip and shoulder. The scars beneath my clothes felt like burning brands. The thin soles of my shoes offered no comfort against the hard pavement. My meager savings were dwindling, and a new doctor' s visit for Ida' s heart was looming.

Just as I was about to turn the corner onto our familiar, rundown street, a sleek black car, far too expensive for this neighborhood, glided to a halt beside me. My heart leaped into my throat.

The tinted window rolled down, revealing Grayson Malone. His expression was a mixture of concern and something else entirely-a raw, frantic desperation I hadn' t seen since... since before it all started. His eyes, in that moment, held a flicker of the man I once loved.

"Jillian," he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "Let me help you. This isn' t... this isn' t how you should be living."

I instinctively tightened my grip on Ida. My body recoiled, a primal instinct to protect my child from the source of all my pain. "I don' t need your help," I spat, starting to walk faster.

He was out of the car in an instant, blocking my path. "Jillian, please." He reached out, his hand hovering near Ida' s head.

Ida, startled by the sudden stop and the unfamiliar man, whimpered, burying her face deeper into my shoulder.

"Don' t make a scene," I warned, my voice low and dangerous. I tried to push past him, but he was surprisingly agile, stepping in front of me again.

"I only want to talk," he insisted. "And... I want to see her." His eyes were fixed on Ida, a strange intensity in their depths.

Just then, Ida, sensing his gaze, lifted her head. Her large, curious eyes met his. A moment of silence stretched between them, a silent recognition passing through their shared features. Then, her small voice, clear as a bell, cut through the tension.

"Daddy?"

Grayson froze. His face went ashen, his jaw slacked. His breath hitched, a visible tremor running through his powerful frame. He looked like he' d been struck by lightning.

My carefully built facade threatened to crack. I didn' t wait. I shoved past him, adrenaline surging through my veins, and almost ran the rest of the way home.

He followed, of course. "Jillian, wait! What did she just say?" His voice was hoarse with shock.

My small, dilapidated apartment building, with its peeling paint and broken mailbox, seemed to mock his presence. He stood on the cracked pavement, his expensive suit looking utterly out of place. His eyes scanned the grime-covered windows, the overflowing dumpster. Disgust, then disbelief, clouded his features.

"You live here?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if the words themselves were tainted. "Jillian, what happened to you?"

What happened to me? I almost laughed. You happened, Grayson. You, and Kiera, and your twisted sense of justice. I remembered the lavish brownstone I once called home, the Columbia University apartment overflowing with books and light, the comfortable life my parents had built for us. My father, Dr. Hartley Miles, a respected history professor, a man of integrity. My mother, elegant and kind. All gone. Destroyed by his ambition, by his lies, by his thirst for revenge.

I remembered the day I' d chosen him, a brilliant but rough-around-the-edges student, over the comfortable, academic life I was born into. I remembered his hungry eyes, his fierce intelligence, his promises of a future together. God, I was such a fool.

My thoughts were abruptly shattered by the insistent ring of Grayson' s phone. He fumbled for it, his eyes still wide with shock as he looked at my building.

"Grayson Malone," he answered, his voice regaining a semblance of control, though it was still strained. "Yes, Kiera. What is it?"

Kiera. The name was a fresh scar, throbbing with renewed pain. Kiera Lara. The viper. The architect of so much of my suffering. She was always the puppeteer, pulling Grayson' s strings, twisting his insecurities into weapons. A venomous spider, forever weaving webs of deceit.

This was my chance. I slipped through the unlocked door of the building, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I heard Grayson' s voice, muffled now, as he argued with Kiera. I didn' t wait to hear more. I flew up the creaking stairs, my old injuries screaming in protest, but I ignored them. I reached my apartment, fumbled with the key, and slammed the door shut, leaning against it, gasping for breath.

I listened. Footsteps on the stairs, hesitant, then retreating. He was gone. He' d gone back to Kiera. To his other life.

I allowed myself a moment of perverse satisfaction. He was rattled. He was confused. He had the journal. And Kiera, his loyal accomplice, was already on the defensive. My plan, six years in the making, was finally in motion.

He would be consumed by doubt, by his own manufactured paranoia. That was his weakness. His inability to truly trust, his need to control. He would pick apart every word in that journal, every memory. And in doing so, he would unravel himself.

This was just the beginning. The first domino.

Jillian Chapman POV:

Ida' s small hand felt impossibly delicate in mine, almost translucent. Her skin was cool, even in the stuffy hospital waiting room. The congenital heart condition she' d inherited from Grayson, the one we' d kept secret, was a constant, terrifying presence. It was a ticking clock.

"Mommy, can we get ice cream after?" she whispered, her voice reedy.

I squeezed her hand. "If you' re brave for the doctors, sweetie."

Just then, a familiar, deep voice cut through the sterile quiet. "Adam, stop running!"

My head snapped up. Grayson. And Kiera. They emerged from a consultation room down the hall, Adam skipping ahead of them, a bright red toy car clutched in his hand. My past, my present, and all my pain, neatly packaged in one horrifying tableau.

Grayson' s eyes met mine across the expanse of polished linoleum. He faltered, his step faltering. He looked... uncomfortable. Guilty, perhaps? A fleeting thought, quickly dismissed. Grayson Malone felt no true guilt. Only inconvenience.

"Jillian," he said, his voice low, as he approached. Kiera, ever the attentive partner, slid her arm through his, her manicured nails digging subtly into his bicep. "What are you doing here?"

I simply held Ida' s hand tighter, her tiny fingers almost disappearing in my grasp. I didn' t answer. I just began to walk past them, my gaze fixed straight ahead, as if they were invisible.

Kiera, however, wouldn' t be ignored. She tightened her grip on Grayson, pulling him closer, then plastered a wide, insincere smile on her face. "Well, well, if it isn' t Jillian Chapman!" Her voice was cloyingly sweet, a poison wrapped in sugar. "Fancy meeting you here, of all places."

I kept walking, pulling Ida along.

"Still running away, I see," Kiera purred, her voice carrying. "Just like you ran from your responsibilities. And just like your poor father ran from the truth."

My steps faltered. The words were a physical blow. The old wound, festering for six years, ripped open. My father, Dr. Hartley Miles, a man whose integrity was his very breath. They had dragged his name through the mud, smeared him with lies of academic fraud and sexual harassment. All to destroy him, and me.

Kiera giggled, a brittle, unpleasant sound. "Oh, forgive me. I forgot you don' t like to talk about dear old Dad. Or your rather... unconventional relationship with Grayson, your former student. Such a scandal, wasn' t it? Nearly ruined Columbia' s reputation, that whole sordid affair." She feigned a sympathetic sigh. "Though, in hindsight, I suppose it was for the best. Your father exposed for the monster he was, and you... well, you found your true calling, didn' t you? Manipulating men from humble beginnings."

My blood ran cold. The buzzing in my ears grew louder. I remembered Kiera's smug face at the wedding, the projector screen flashing the fabricated evidence, the whispers, the jeers. I remembered the way Grayson had stood there, impassive, while my world imploded.

I remembered trying to explain, trying to make him see the truth. But he had just stared at me, his eyes full of a chilling conviction. "You' re sick, Jillian. Twisted. Just like your father."

A small, fierce voice broke through my haze of pain. "My grandpa wasn' t a monster!" Ida cried, her tiny fists balled. Her face was flushed, her chest heaving. "He was kind! You' re the monster!"

Kiera' s sugary smile vanished. Her eyes flashed with pure venom. "Watch your tone, you little brat!" She lunged forward, her hand shooting out. I moved, but not fast enough. She shoved Ida.

My daughter tumbled backward, hitting Adam, who was running past us at that exact moment. Adam, caught off guard, stumbled, then regained his footing. He didn' t like being touched, especially not by Ida. He reacted instinctively, fueled by Kiera' s hatred. He pushed Ida with both hands. Harder.

Ida cried out, a guttural sound of pure agony, as her small head hit the corner of a metal chair. Her eyes rolled back. A thin trickle of crimson bloomed on her temple, stark against her pale skin. Her breath hitched, then stopped.

Panic. Raw, primal, suffocating panic clawed its way up my throat. "Ida!" My voice was a strangled shriek. I dropped to my knees, cradling her limp body. The blood was spreading. Her lips were turning blue. She wasn' t breathing.

My vision tunneled. I saw Kiera' s triumphant smirk, Adam' s wide, terrified eyes. I saw Grayson, frozen, his face a mask of horror. All the years of abuse, the lies, the pain, the betrayal, culminated in this single, devastating moment.

Something snapped inside me. My hand shot out, fueled by a rage so profound it felt like a separate entity. My palm connected with Kiera' s cheek with a sickening crack. The force of it sent her stumbling backward, her designer handbag flying.

"You... you evil bitch!" I screamed, my voice raw, unrecognizable. "You did this! You always do this! You took everything! My family! My life! And now my daughter? You' re a monster, Kiera! A parasitic, hateful monster!"

Kiera clutched her stinging cheek, her eyes wide with shock and fury. "Grayson! Did you see that? She' s insane! Just like they said!"

A crowd had gathered, a sea of whispering faces, all staring at me. Their judgment, their thinly veiled distaste, felt like stones pelting my already broken spirit. Crazy. Unhinged. Dangerous. They had called me worse. They had locked me away for it.

Adam, still standing over Ida' s prone form, started to tremble. His eyes, fixed on his little sister, welled with tears. "She... she' s broken," he whispered, his small voice cracking.

Grayson finally moved. He scooped Ida into his arms, his face white as a sheet, the dark stain of blood on her temple a stark contrast to his pristine shirt. "Ida! Baby, wake up!" he pleaded, his voice choked with emotion. He turned to his assistant, who had materialized seemingly out of nowhere. "Get a doctor! Now! Emergency! And get Kiera out of my sight!" His voice boomed, raw with a desperate fear I hadn't heard from him in years.

Doctors swarmed, their words a frantic blur. "Head trauma... cardiac arrest... we need to stabilize her heartbeat... prep for surgery."

Grayson, holding Ida tightly, followed them into the emergency room. "Transplant list! She needs a heart! I' ll pay anything! Do whatever it takes!"

I watched him go, a strange mix of satisfaction and terror churning in my gut. He clutched his daughter, thinking she was a stranger.

Ida, barely conscious, her eyes fluttering open, reached a weak hand towards Grayson. "Daddy..." she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Grayson froze, his eyes widening. He looked at Ida, then at me, a dawning horror spreading across his face. His carefully constructed world, his meticulously crafted lies, were starting to unravel. He looked like a man who' d just stared into the abyss and seen his own reflection.

"Daddy?" he repeated, his voice choked. He looked down at Ida, then buried his face in her hair. His shoulders shook. He was crying. For Ida. For our daughter.

"Get me a match! Find a donor! I don' t care what it costs!" he yelled, his voice thick with tears. He hugged Ida tightly as the doctors wheeled her away, towards the operating room. "Find a match!"

Kiera, her face red and swollen from the slap, had been hustled away by Grayson' s assistant. She was crying, her sobs echoing down the hall. But her tears were for herself, for her bruised ego, not for Ida.

The door to the operating room swung shut, leaving me alone in the silent, sterile corridor. My legs gave out. I sank to the floor, my hands trembling. The rage was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating resolve.

He' s finally feeling it. The pain. The fear. The desperation. The helplessness. This was just the first payment. There would be more.

My phone, clutched in my hand, vibrated. It was a text from an unfamiliar number. Your appointment has been confirmed. Dr. Miles Foundation. Assistant position.

A ghost of a smile touched my lips. My revenge was just beginning. It was not just for Ida, but for my father. For everything they took.

Jillian Chapman POV:

Ida was recovering. A small, vibrant miracle. Her chest still bore the faint line of a scar, a testament to the surgery, but her laughter echoed through the spacious, sunlit room. A new heart, a new chance. Grayson' s heart. He' d been the one, the perfect match. The irony was a bitter pill.

I watched her, a tenderness so profound it ached, as she carefully stacked colorful blocks. My child. My brave, resilient child.

"Mommy, look!" she exclaimed, pointing to a corner of the room. "Presents!"

My gaze followed hers. A small mountain of brightly wrapped boxes sat on a mahogany table. Toys, clothes, books. All new. All expensive.

"Are they from the man?" Ida asked, her voice hushed with wonder.

I nodded, a silent affirmation. Grayson had been showering us with gifts since Ida' s recovery. A gilded cage, perhaps, but a cage nonetheless. A comfortable one.

Ida' s eyes widened. "He' s so rich, Mommy! Maybe... maybe we can use his money to buy us a real house? And a big, big library, like grandpa had?"

Her words, innocent as they were, pierced me. A real house. A library. The life I once had, the life they had stolen.

My mind drifted, unbidden, back to another time, another life. A life before the fall.

The soft hum of string music, the scent of white roses, the gentle murmur of anticipation. It was my wedding day. I was standing beside Grayson, his hand warm and strong in mine, the officiant' s words a blur of happiness. Then, the lights flickered. A sudden, jarring darkness.

A blinding spotlight pierced the gloom, illuminating the large projector screen above us. My breath caught. My father' s face, then a headline: "Professor Miles Accused of Predatory Behavior." Beneath it, a grainy photo of him and Grayson' s sister, her arm linked through his, walking in the rain. An innocent act of kindness, twisted into something sinister.

Then, the footage changed. My own face, younger, vulnerable. A series of intimate videos, edited to portray me as manipulative, coercive. My voice, whispering endearments to Grayson, twisted into a confession of exploiting a naive student.

"Jillian, tell them," Grayson' s voice, cold and detached, had sliced through the shocked silence. "Tell them you seduced me. Tell them your father preyed on my sister."

I had stared at him, my heart shattering into a million pieces. The man I loved, my fiancé, was a stranger. A monster.

"She' s lying!" I' d screamed, my voice raw with disbelief. "My father is innocent! He helped your sister!"

But the words were drowned out by the shouts of my father' s colleagues, former friends, now turning on him like a pack of wolves. "Disgrace! Pedophile!"

My father, Dr. Miles, frail and heartbroken, had tried to explain. He' d chased after them, desperate to clear his name. I' d heard the screech of tires, the horrified screams. He was gone.

My mother, unable to bear the weight of the scandal, had spiraled. She' d lost everything, gambled it away, then taken her own life.

And me? Grayson had me institutionalized. Declared unfit, insane. I was pregnant then. Our son, Adam, was born behind those cold, padded walls. They took him from me, just hours after he entered the world. Kiera, smiling, had carried him away, whispering, "He' s better off without you, Jillian."

Grayson visited sometimes. Drunk. He' d lean over my bed, his breath reeking of whiskey. "Look at you, Jillian. A tragic figure. You brought this all on yourself. You and your family of degenerates." He would hit me then, a backhand across the face, then leave. Leaving me broken, alone, covered in bruises and despair.

A knock startled me back to the present. Grayson stood in the doorway, a small, leather-bound journal in his hand. The journal. The one I strategically "lost."

"You left this," he said, his voice quiet, his gaze wary. He held it out to me. "I haven' t read it. Not a word."

He was lying. I could see it in the slight tremor of his hand, the way his eyes avoided mine. The guilt was a palpable thing, radiating from him.

"Keep it," I said, my voice flat, devoid of interest. I didn' t reach for it. "It' s meaningless to me now."

The room fell silent, heavy with unspoken words. He stood there, holding the journal, looking lost. This was exactly what I wanted. To make him doubt, to make him question everything he thought he knew.

"I need to check on Ida' s medication," I said, using the excuse to escape. I walked past him, heading for the bathroom.

He moved swiftly, blocking the doorway, his arm bracing against the frame, trapping me. His eyes raked over my face, lingering on the faint shadows beneath my eyes, the weary lines around my mouth. "You' re still so thin," he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly against my cheek. The touch was unexpected, a ghost of intimacy that made my skin crawl.

"You have a strange way of showing concern, Grayson," I said, my voice laced with ice. "Usually, it involves locking me up or tearing my family apart."

He flinched. "Jillian, I... I can give you anything you want. Money. A new life. Anything." He released me, stepping back. "I know I messed up. Terribly. But I swear, I thought... I thought your father was a monster. I thought you... you misled me."

"And now?" I asked, meeting his gaze directly. "Now you think I' m deserving of your charity? Your pity?" A bitter smile twisted my lips. "Perhaps I am. Perhaps I always deserved this. To be broken. To be humiliated. To have everything I loved stripped away."

His eyes widened, shock warring with confusion. This wasn' t the defiant, spitting woman he remembered. This was a broken shell, seemingly accepting her fate. This was my new masquerade.

The old Jillian would have screamed. She would have fought him, cursed him, flung accusations like daggers. I remembered the desperation, the frantic energy of my initial resistance, the way I'd scratched and bit and clawed at him, only to be subdued, injected, and locked away. That Jillian was dead. This Jillian was far more dangerous.

He hesitated, then pulled out his phone. A few taps, and then, "I' ve just transferred five million dollars to your account, Jillian. It' s a start."

The sheer audacity of it. Five million dollars for a lifetime of suffering. But it was a start. A necessary resource for my plan.

Just then, his phone rang again. A familiar name flashed across the screen. Kiera Lara. Grayson winced, then answered, his voice softening slightly, though a thread of annoyance was still present. "Kiera, what is it? I' m busy."

I heard Kiera' s shrill voice from the other end, barely muffled. "Grayson, where are you? Adam is asking for you. He' s had a nightmare. He misses you, darling." Her tone was possessive, manipulative.

Grayson sighed. He looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Jillian," he said, his voice hesitant. "Adam... he asks about you sometimes. Would you... would you consider visiting him? Just for a little while?"

The question hung in the air, a test, a plea. My mind raced. This was an unexpected turn. This was an opportunity.