Three days later.
The apartment in Brooklyn was a shoebox.
It was a far cry from the penthouse in Manhattan-no doorman, no floor-to-ceiling windows, just a cramped living room that connected to a tiny kitchen. But it was hers. It was hidden.
Elinor sat on the floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes. She pulled out a small, pink sweater. It still smelled faintly of the hospital, of Cece. She pressed it to her face, inhaling the scent, her eyes burning.
A loud, aggressive buzzing shattered the silence.
Elinor's head snapped up. She stared at the door.
The buzzing came again, longer this time, followed by a heavy pounding.
"Elinor! Open the door!"
Derick's voice was muffled by the wood, but the fury in it was unmistakable.
Elinor scrambled to her feet, her heart hammering against her ribs. She backed away from the door, her eyes darting around the room.
"I know you're in there!" Derick yelled. "Open it, or I'll break it down!"
Elinor pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle her breathing. She wasn't ready. She couldn't face him, not here, not in this small space where she couldn't escape.
A metallic clicking sound came from the lock. Derick hadn't become a billionaire by taking no for an answer. He had resources.
The lock clicked. The door flew open, slamming against the wall with a bang.
Derick stood in the doorway, his chest heaving. Two men in suits stood behind him, one holding a lockpicking tool. Derick dismissed them with a jerk of his head, and they retreated down the hall.
He stepped inside, his eyes scanning the cramped, dingy apartment. His lip curled in distaste. "This is where you're hiding? Slumming it?"
Elinor grabbed a pair of heavy fabric scissors from the table behind her. She held them up, the point aimed at his chest. "Get out."
Derick ignored the scissors. He walked further into the room, his expensive shoes crunching on a piece of packing tape. He looked at the boxes, the scattered clothes, the lack of a second bedroom.
"Where is she?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "Where is Cece?"
"I told you," Elinor said, her hand shaking, the scissors wobbling. "She's dead."
"Stop lying!" Derick closed the distance between them in two steps. He grabbed the blades of the scissors with his bare hand, squeezing them tight enough that the metal bit into his palm. He wrenched them out of her grip and threw them across the room. They clattered against the kitchen counter.
He grabbed Elinor by the upper arms and slammed her back against the wall. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs.
"Where is my daughter?" he demanded, his face inches from hers, his breath hot on her skin.
Elinor gasped, trying to inhale. And then she smelled it. The faint, cloying scent of gardenias. Kamryn's signature perfume. It clung to Derick's collar, a ghost of the woman he had just left.
A wave of nausea rolled through Elinor. Her stomach heaved. This man, who had just been holding another woman, was now pressing her against a wall, demanding to see the child he had ignored.
"Let me go," she choked out, struggling against his grip.
Derick pressed his body closer, using his weight to pin her. He thought she would submit. He thought the familiar proximity would calm her, remind her of who she belonged to.
Elinor looked into his eyes. She saw only arrogance. Only possession. No remorse. No grief.
The disgust was overpowering. She gathered every ounce of saliva in her dry mouth and spat directly into his face.
Derick froze. The wet glob hit his cheek, sliding down toward his jaw. His eyes went wide with shock, then narrowed to slits.
He released one of her arms to wipe his face, his hand shaking with rage. He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into the hinges of her jaw, forcing her to look at him.
"You are testing my patience," he said, his voice a low, venomous whisper. "Don't push me."
"Your patience?" Elinor laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "Your patience is for that fraud you keep on a leash?"
Derick's grip tightened on her chin. The mention of Kamryn was a red flag. "You're delusional. Kamryn is the only sane woman in my life."
"Then go to her," Elinor said, her voice dead. "Go back to your fake family."
Derick stared at her for a long moment, his chest heaving. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to force the truth out of her. But the deadness in her eyes unsettled him.
He released her chin with a shove. "There is no divorce," he said, adjusting his cuffs. "A Grant doesn't get divorced. You'll come home when you're done throwing your tantrum."
He turned and walked out, leaving the broken door hanging off its hinges.
Elinor slid down the wall, her legs giving out. She wrapped her arms around her knees, her body trembling uncontrollably. She fumbled for her phone on the floor beside her.
"Hello," she said, her voice hoarse. "I need a heavy-duty deadbolt installed. Today. And a security system. The best you have."
