Chapter 4 - The 7:00 AM Arrival
At seven in the morning, the heavy iron gates of the estate buzzed open.
I stood behind the sheer linen curtains of the second-floor library, looking down at the gravel driveway as a sleek silver Porsche Taycan purred to a halt.
Sienna Rowe stepped out of the vehicle, wearing an impeccable cream-colored wool coat, dark sunglasses, and four-inch designer pumps.
She carried a leather portfolio under one arm and a large pastry box tied with pink silk ribbon from a luxury bakery in SoHo.
She looked radiant, rested, and entirely composed—the picture of an ambitious corporate executive visiting an exhausted, stay-at-home mother.
Preston met her at the bottom of the limestone front steps, his hands sliding naturally around her waist in a familiar greeting before he caught himself and stepped back.
They spoke in low, hushed tones for two minutes, their heads tilted together, their expressions tense and focused.
Sienna pointed upward toward the second-floor windows, her red lips curving into a tight, dismissive sneer.
Preston nodded once, patted her shoulder, and opened the heavy oak front door for her.
I stepped away from the window, walked to the dressing room, and lifted Willa into my arms.
I had dressed her in a clean white cotton onesie and wrapped her in the hand-knit yellow blanket my grandmother had made.
I wore simple black trousers, a cream cashmere turtleneck, and no jewelry other than my mother’s vintage gold watch.
My hair was brushed back into a neat, professional chignon, and my face was entirely clear of tears.
When I walked down the grand marble staircase, the scent of fresh almond croissants and brewed dark roast coffee filled the foyer.
Preston and Sienna were standing in the open breakfast room, their papers spread across the white quartz island.
"Good morning, Elise," Sienna said smoothly, taking off her dark glasses and flashing a brilliant, rehearsed smile.
"I brought those gluten-free pastries from the city you love so much. I thought you might need an energy boost after such a rough night."
I walked into the kitchen, stopping five feet from the island, cradling my sleeping daughter against my chest.
"Did you find the camera connection stable enough, Sienna?" I asked, my voice polite, even, and terrifyingly calm.
Sienna’s smile froze around the edges, her hand hovering above the pastry box.
Preston stepped forward instantly, his brow furrowing into that stern, paternalistic mask he used to deflect confrontation.
"Elise, please. Don't start this again in front of our guests. Sienna was gracious enough to drive out here at dawn to assist with the foundation paperwork."
"What foundation paperwork, Preston?" I asked, stepping up to the island and looking down at the open documents.
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At the top of the center page, printed in bold legal font, were the words: Petition for Temporary Guardianship and Appointment of Special Conservator for Infant Beneficiary.
Beside it lay an affidavit of maternal postpartum depression and emotional instability, awaiting two medical signatures.
