Glenwood did not waste time. He ordered Leland to draft the Guardian Reassignment papers immediately, cutting off any chance for Alton to retaliate.
Byron stood over the mahogany desk. He gripped the expensive fountain pen. The metal nib hovered over the dotted line. He swallowed hard, feeling like he was signing away his soul. He pressed down and scrawled his signature.
The second the ink dried, Byron turned around. He grabbed the strap of Cordelia's faded canvas backpack with one hand and marched toward the front door.
Cordelia jogged slightly to keep up with his long strides. As she crossed the threshold of the estate, she did not look back. She did not spare a single glance for the two biological parents staring daggers into her back.
They reached the driveway. A blindingly silver Aston Martin sports car sat idling, its engine purring like a caged beast.
Byron popped open the passenger door. He looked at the high chassis of the car, then looked down at Cordelia's short legs. He let out a heavy sigh.
He bent at the waist, grabbed Cordelia under her armpits, and hoisted her up like a sack of potatoes. He dumped her onto the pristine white leather seat.
The Aston Martin tore out of the Long Island estate. It merged onto the highway, speeding toward Manhattan.
Heavy metal rock music blasted from the car's speakers, vibrating the floorboards.
Cordelia felt the bass pounding against her ribs. She frowned. She did not complain. She simply reached out her small hand and twisted the volume dial all the way to the left.
The music cut off. The sudden silence in the cabin was deafening.
Byron glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. His eyebrow twitched. Surprisingly, he did not reach out to turn the music back on. He kept his hands on the steering wheel.
Thirty minutes later, the sports car descended into the private underground garage of a luxury high-rise in Tribeca.
They stepped into the private elevator. Byron scanned his fingerprint. The elevator shot up to the penthouse level. The metal doors slid open with a soft ping.
The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows was a breathtaking panorama of the New York skyline. But the interior of the apartment was a disaster zone.
Empty whiskey bottles and crushed pizza boxes littered the expensive Persian rug. Draped casually over the back of a white leather sofa was a piece of black lace lingerie.
Martha, the middle-aged housekeeper, walked out of the kitchen holding a vacuum cleaner. She saw Byron. Then she saw the seven-year-old girl standing behind him.
Martha froze. The vacuum hose slipped from her hand and hit the floor.
"Mr. Fitzpatrick," Martha stammered, her eyes darting wildly between the two of them. "Who is..."
Byron ran a hand through his messy blond hair, looking exhausted. He tossed the canvas bag onto an armchair. "My niece, Cordelia. She lives here now."
Martha gasped. She lunged toward the sofa, snatched the black lace underwear, and shoved it into her apron pocket. Her face flushed bright red.
Byron pointed down the hallway. "Clean out the guest room. Get her a bed or something."
Having issued his orders, Byron checked his Rolex. He let out a breath, walked straight to the crystal bar cart, and reached for a half-empty bottle of Macallan. He needed a drink.
Cordelia stood in the middle of the chaotic living room. She looked like a tiny nun dropped into a casino.
She did not look scared. She slowly turned her head, scanning the apartment with the cold, calculating eyes of an auditor.
In her past life, Byron's reckless lifestyle had made him an easy target. Denzel Jefferson had exploited his drinking, stolen his tech company's core code, and driven Byron to jump off a building.
Cordelia narrowed her eyes. She had chosen this man. She would not let him die again. The rehabilitation program started now.
Cordelia walked over to the bar cart. She stood on her tiptoes. She reached out her small hand and clamped her fingers over the neck of the whiskey bottle just as Byron was about to pour.
Byron looked down at the tiny hand. He frowned. "What are you doing? Underage drinking is illegal."
Cordelia tilted her head back. Her blue eyes were crystal clear and hard as diamonds. "Dad. Drinking is bad for your liver."
"Dad?"
The word hit Byron like a taser. His hand jerked. A splash of expensive amber liquid spilled over the rim of the glass and pooled on the marble counter.
Cordelia blinked her large, innocent eyes. "Grandpa said you are my guardian. A guardian is a Dad."
While Byron's brain completely short-circuited, Cordelia yanked the bottle out of his loose grip. She slammed it down on the far end of the counter, issuing her first absolute decree.
