"The petitioner cites erratic behavior at a public dinner as evidence of maternal unfitness."
The judge's voice echoes through the courtroom, and I grip the bench until my knuckles scream.
Rowena sits three rows ahead, looking every inch the concerned grandmother protecting an innocent child from his unhinged mother.
"Your Honor, if I may."
Caspian rises, and my heart stutters. His lawyer specifically told him to stay quiet.
"Mr. Voss, this is highly irregular—"
"My counsel didn't witness what happened that night. I did."
He moves toward the front with that boardroom stride, except now it's aimed at his own mother.
"My wife left that dinner because my family humiliated her. My mother invited a woman she hoped I'd find more suitable, seated her beside me while my wife sat at the far end of the table. She made comments about legacy and breeding and good hips while Elara tried not to cry."
Rowena's spine goes rigid.
"My wife's so-called erratic behavior was the only dignified response to an impossible situation. I should have walked out with her. I should have told every person at that table exactly where they could put their opinions about my marriage."
His voice cracks.
"Instead, I sat there like a coward. My wife isn't unstable, Your Honor. She deserves better than having her parenting questioned by the people who drove her away."
Rowena's face drains white. Her own son, choosing the woman she tried to destroy.
"Motion denied." The gavel falls. "Insufficient evidence of maternal unfitness."
I'm already pushing through the doors, eyes blurring with tears.
The courthouse bathroom is mercifully empty.
I lock myself in a stall and press my forehead against cool metal, shoulders shaking. All those accusations—unstable, erratic, unfit—laid out like facts while strangers decided if I deserved my own child.
The door opens.
"Elara."
Caspian's voice, soft, from outside the stall.
"You're in the women's bathroom. Security will have questions."
"I don't care. Open the door. Please."
I unlock it with trembling fingers.
He's there—tie loosened, eyes red-rimmed.
"I'm so sorry. I should have stopped this before it reached the courtroom. I was a coward and you paid the price—"
I slap him.
The sound echoes off tile. My palm stings. He doesn't flinch, just stands there with my handprint blooming across his cheek.
"You let her do this." My voice breaks. "You let her call me an unfit mother in front of a judge."
"You're right. I have no excuse."
He turns toward the door. His hand touches the handle.
And then he stops.
I watch his shoulders rise and fall once, twice. Watch his fingers curl into a fist against the metal. Watch ten months of distance collapse in the space between one breath and the next.
He turns back and crosses the bathroom in two strides, his mouth finding mine before I can speak.
This kiss isn't brutal. It's desperate in a different way—the desperation of coming home after too long away, of finally touching something you convinced yourself you'd lost forever.
His hands reach for my face, but I catch his wrists and push him backward into the stall, kicking the door shut behind us.
The lock clicks into place.
"Elara—"
"Shut up."
I press him down onto the closed toilet seat, and the surprise in his eyes sends a thrill straight through me. The truth is, I've been wound tight since those text messages that left me aching and ashamed and desperate for something I couldn't name.
I need release, and I need it on my terms.
He’s not fighting me, his gaze locked on mine with a mix of awe and hunger that makes my stomach twist
"You've had ten months to talk. Right now, I don't want your words."
His pants are already tented, the fabric straining against the hardness beneath, and I can’t help but smirk. I’ve always loved how quick he gets for me, how he loses his composure the second my hands are on him.
I climb onto his lap, my skirt riding up to my hips, and the feel of his thighs against mine sends a jolt of heat straight to my core.
His hands move to grip my hips, but I slap them away, pinning them back against the stall wall.
He’s trembling now, his pulse racing beneath my fingers. I roll my hips slowly, deliberately, grinding against him through the layers of fabric. His breath hitches, and the sound makes me want to ruin him.
I lean in closer, my lips brushing his ear.
"You’re going to sit there and take it," I breathe, my voice low and dripping with venom. "You’re going to let me have this."
He nods, swallowing hard, and the obedience in his eyes makes my knees tremble.
I reach between us, fumbling with the button on his pants. His cock springs free, thick and hard. I shift my underwear to the side, not bothering to take it off, and sink down onto him inch by agonizing inch.
The stretch is perfect, just the way I remember, and the low moan that escapes his lips vibrates against my neck.
I start slow, rolling my hips in lazy circles, savoring the way he fills me. His hands twitch against the stall wall, but he doesn’t move them.
I speed up, my thighs gripping his hips as I ride him harder, faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the tiny stall, mingling with the wet, filthy noises of our bodies moving together.
His eyes are locked on mine, dark and intense, and the way he’s looking at me—like I’m the only thing in the world—makes my chest ache.
I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me, and lean in until our lips are almost touching.
"You don’t deserve this," I whisper, my voice trembling with anger and something else I don’t want to name.
He nods again, his jaw clenched, and the sight of him submitting to me is almost too much to bear.
I release his wrists, and his hands immediately find my hips, gripping me hard enough to leave bruises.
I don’t care. I want the marks, want the proof of this moment to linger long after it’s over.
I lean back, bracing myself against his knees, and let him take over, thrusting up into me with a force that makes me gasp. His cock hits that spot deep inside me, and I can’t hold back the moan that tears from my throat.
The pressure builds, white-hot and relentless, and I can feel myself getting close.
I reach between us, my fingers finding my clit, and the added sensation pushes me over the edge.
I come hard, my body shuddering around him, and the sound I make is somewhere between a sob and a scream.
He follows moments later, his hips stuttering as he spills inside me, his hands digging into my hips like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
We collapse against each other, foreheads pressed together, breathing ragged and uneven. His hands slide up my back, gentle now, tracing the curve of my spine.
I stay there for a long moment, letting the weight of what we’ve done settle over us.
"That doesn't fix anything."
My voice comes out hoarse.
"I know. But it's a start."
***
That night, alone in Rhys's apartment with Milo sleeping, I pull out my laptop.
The Voss Global login screen glows in the darkness. Ten months since I left, and apparently nobody bothered to revoke my system access. Sloppy. Convenient.
My old password still works.
Rowena's financials spread across my screen—bank statements, credit charges, property records. I cross-reference every transaction against Victor's shell companies, searching for the smoking gun.
Nothing.
Three hours, and nothing connects Rowena to the corporate sabotage. Her cruelty operates in the open—public dinners, custody motions, threats delivered face-to-face. She doesn't hide.
I pull out the Polaroid from the box of rotting roses. Me in the emerald gown, stepping through the palazzo archway. My face scratched out with deliberate violence.
Rowena is cruel, but she's not subtle. This level of planning—the masquerade, the phone theft, the shell companies—requires patience she doesn't possess.
This feels like someone else entirely.
I stare at the ruined photo until my vision blurs.
If not Rowena, then who?