The table was set perfectly. I checked it three times. White linen napkins folded into triangles. The good china with the gold rim. Candles that smelled like vanilla. I kept adjusting the forks even though they were already straight.

Dad sat at the head of the table. He looked smaller than he did this morning. His hand kept pressing against his chest like he was trying to hold something inside. The bankruptcy papers had been filed at two o'clock. By three, the news was everywhere. By four, his phone stopped ringing.

"You didn't have to cook, Bella," he said quietly. He only called me Bella when he was sad.

I smiled. "It's Sunday. We always have Sunday dinner."

He didn't argue. We both knew I needed something to do with my hands.

The girls were upstairs. I heard Madison laughing at something on her tablet. Amelie was reading to Eva. Nylah was probably drawing. Normal sounds. I wanted to keep them normal as long as I could.

Marcos was late. He was always late now. I texted him twice. No answer.

I poured Dad a glass of water. His hand shook when he took it.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't."

"I should have protected you better. Should have seen it coming. Should have—"

"Dad. Please."

He stopped talking. But the look on his face didn't change.

The front door opened at six forty-five. I heard Marcos's voice in the hallway. Then I heard another voice. A woman's voice. Light and sweet.

I walked to the dining room entrance.

Marcos came in first. He wore the gray suit I bought him last Christmas. Behind him was Ashlyn Salazar. His secretary. She wore a soft pink dress that clung to her stomach. She was pregnant. Very pregnant.

My brain went blank.

Marcos pulled out a chair for her. Right next to his usual seat. He sat down like this was normal. Like he brought his pregnant mistress to family dinners all the time.

Dad stood up slowly. "Marcos. What is this?"

Marcos adjusted his cufflinks. He always did that before he said something terrible. I knew that tell. I'd learned it over eight years.

"This is Ashlyn," he said. His voice was calm. Reasonable. "She's carrying my son."

The words didn't make sense at first. Then they did. Then I wished they didn't.

"Your son," I repeated.

He looked at me. His eyes were cold. "The son you couldn't give me. The son I've wanted for eight years."

Ashlyn touched her stomach. Her face was soft. Sad. Like she felt sorry for me.

"I lost a baby last year," she said quietly. "Because of Sienna."

I blinked. "What?"

"You were cruel to me," Ashlyn continued. Her voice broke just a little. Just enough. "At the office. You made me so upset that I miscarried. I was twelve weeks along."

I stared at her. "I've never been cruel to you. I barely know you."

"You did," Marcos said. He wasn't looking at me anymore. He was looking at Dad. "She did. And now she's going to make it right."

Dad's face went red. "You bring this woman into my home—"

"Your home?" Marcos laughed. It wasn't a nice sound. "You filed for bankruptcy this morning, Warren. You don't have a home. You don't have anything."

Dad sat down hard. Like his legs stopped working.

Marcos leaned forward. "Here's what's going to happen. Sienna is going to apologize to Ashlyn. She's going to kneel. And then she's going to sign divorce papers. Clean break. No assets. No custody. Nothing."

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. "You can't take my daughters."

"I can." He pulled a folder from his briefcase. "I have lawyers. You have nothing. Your father has nothing. If you fight me, I'll destroy what's left of him. And I'll make sure you never see Amelie, Madison, Nylah, or Eva again."

I looked at Dad. His hand was pressed over his chest again. His face was gray.

I looked at the staircase. Amelie was sitting halfway up. She was holding Eva. Her face was white. She'd heard everything.

"Sienna." Marcos's voice was sharp now. "Kneel."

I thought about fighting. I thought about screaming. I thought about running upstairs and locking all of us in Amelie's room and never coming out.

But Amelie was watching. And Dad looked like he might collapse. And Marcos had lawyers and money and rage.

I knelt.

The floor was cold against my knees. I looked at Ashlyn's shoes. Pink heels. Expensive.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

Ashlyn smiled. She reached out and touched my hair. Like I was a dog. "I forgive you."

Marcos slid the papers across the table. "Sign."

I signed. Every page. My hand didn't shake. I didn't let it.

When I finished, Marcos stood up. He helped Ashlyn to her feet. "We're done here," he said.

They left.

I stayed on my knees. I couldn't move. I heard Amelie crying upstairs. I heard Dad's breathing, ragged and awful.

I stayed there until the candles burned out.

The penthouse smelled different. Like someone else's perfume. Like I didn't belong there anymore.

I stood in the marble foyer holding a bag of books. Picture books for Eva. A chapter book for Amelie. I'd spent an hour at the bookstore choosing them. I couldn't afford an hour at the bookstore. I bought them anyway.

Ashlyn opened the door. She wore a cream sweater that hugged her pregnant stomach. Her hair was pulled back. She smiled like we were friends.

"Sienna. Come in."

I stepped inside. My home for eight years. Now I needed permission to enter.

The girls were in the living room. Eva saw me first. She ran. Her little legs pumped hard against the floor. I dropped to my knees and caught her.

"Mama!"

I held her so tight. She smelled like the lavender soap I used to buy. Someone else bought it now.

"I missed you, baby."

"I missed you more."

Amelie stood by the window. She didn't run. She was eleven now. Old enough to understand that running to me might make things worse. But her eyes were red.

Madison sat on the couch with her arms crossed. "This is stupid," she announced. "Why can't Mom just stay?"

Ashlyn settled into the armchair. The one that used to be mine. "Your mother is visiting. That's what the court said."

"The court is stupid," Madison shot back.

"Madison." I kept my voice gentle. "It's okay."

"It's not okay!" She was ten. Still young enough to say the true thing out loud.

Nylah appeared from the hallway. She was holding her sketchbook against her chest like a shield. She didn't say anything. She just climbed into my lap next to Eva.

I had two hours. One hundred twenty minutes. Then I had to leave.

I read to them. Eva curled against my left side. Nylah against my right. Madison sat close enough that her knee pressed against mine. Amelie stayed by the window, but she was listening. I knew she was listening.

Ashlyn scrolled through her phone. She was always there. Every visit. Watching. The court order said "supervised visitation." Like I was dangerous. Like I might hurt my own children.

I turned pages. I did voices for the characters. I smiled when Eva giggled. I acted like my chest wasn't caving in.

After the first book, Madison asked, "When are you coming home?"

I smoothed her hair. "I'm working on it, sweetheart."

"Dad says you can't take care of us anymore."

My hand stopped moving. "That's not true."

"He says you don't have money. He says you live in a bad place."

I looked at Ashlyn. She was still scrolling. Still smiling.

"I live in Brooklyn," I said carefully. "It's small. But it's safe."

"Can we see it?"

"Not yet."

"Why not?"

Because your father's lawyers are using my poverty against me. Because the studio is two hundred square feet and has one window. Because I can barely afford groceries.

"Soon," I said instead.

Amelie finally spoke. "He's lying." Her voice was flat. Hard. "Dad's lying about everything."

Ashlyn looked up. "Amelie. That's not appropriate."

"You're not my mother." Amelie's voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. "Stop pretending you are."

The room went silent.

Ashlyn's smile thinned. "I'm going to be your brother's mother. That makes us family."

"You're a liar," Amelie said. "And everyone knows it."

I stood up fast. "Amelie. Come here."

She walked over. Slowly. I pulled her aside. Lowered my voice.

"I know you're angry. I'm angry too. But you can't talk to her like that."

"Why not? She talks to you like you're nothing."

My throat closed. I touched her cheek. "Because it'll make things harder. For all of us. Please, baby. I need you to be careful."

Her eyes filled. "I hate him."

"I know."

"I hate her more."

I pulled her into my arms. She was shaking. Eleven years old and shaking with rage she had no way to release.

The two hours ended. Ashlyn stood. "Time's up."

Eva started crying immediately. She wrapped her arms around my neck. "No. No no no."

"I'll be back soon," I whispered. "I promise."

"When?"

"Thursday."

"That's so long!"

Four days. Ninety-six hours. It felt like years.

I peeled her arms off gently. Madison grabbed my hand. Nylah pressed her sketchbook into my arms. "Take it," she whispered. "So you remember."

I looked down. She'd drawn our family. All six of us. But she'd erased Marcos. There was just a blank space where he used to be.

I left the penthouse. I walked to the subway. I sat on the train and opened Nylah's sketchbook.

Every page was a house. Different sizes. Different colors. But every single one had the same thing missing. No doors. No way in. No way out.

I closed the book. I pressed it against my chest. I rode the train to Brooklyn and climbed four flights of stairs to a studio that smelled like mildew and someone else's cigarettes.

Dad was waiting outside my door. He held a bag of groceries. His face was gray.

"You didn't have to come," I said.

"Yes, I did."

We went inside. He unpacked the groceries in silence. Bread. Peanut butter. Apples. Things that didn't need cooking. He knew I didn't have a real kitchen.

He sat on the only chair. I sat on the bed. The mattress dipped under me.

"I got a letter today," I said. "From Marcos's lawyers."

He looked up.

"They're filing to reduce my visitation. They say this place isn't safe. They say I can't provide adequate care."

Dad's hands curled into fists. "He's using my failure against you."

"Dad—"

"I destroyed you." His voice cracked. "I built everything and I lost it and now you're paying for it."

"You didn't do this. Marcos did."

"I couldn't stop him."

I didn't argue. Because he was right. And we both knew it.

He left an hour later. I locked the door. I lay on the bed. I stared at the ceiling.

I thought about Amelie's face. Madison's anger. Nylah's doorless houses. Eva's arms around my neck.

I thought about Marcos's lawyers. The motion to restrict. The slow, methodical process of erasing me from my daughters' lives.

I thought about the phone number I'd kept for ten years. The one I'd never called. The one I swore I'd never need.

I pulled out my phone. I stared at the contact. Calum Richardson.

My hands shook.

I put the phone down.

I picked it up again.

I pressed call.

It rang once. Twice.

Then a voice I hadn't heard in a decade. Deep. Steady. Certain.

"Sienna."

I started crying. I couldn't help it.

"I need help," I whispered.

Silence. Then:

"I'm coming. And I'm bringing everything I have."

The invitation came on Tuesday. Cream card stock. Gold lettering. The Plaza Hotel. Black tie.

I stared at it for ten minutes. My name was printed right there. Mrs. Sienna Daniels. Not Mrs. Marcos Webb. Someone had made a choice.

I called the number on the back. A woman answered. Renata Voss. I remembered her. Sharp voice. Sharper opinions. We'd served on the spring benefit committee together three years ago.

"Your name stays," she said before I could ask. "I don't care what anyone says. You're invited."

"Renata, I can't afford a table—"

"You're not buying a table. You're attending. There's a difference."

I looked around my studio. Four hundred square feet. One window. A mattress on the floor.

"I don't think I should—"

"Sienna." Her voice went hard. "If you disappear completely, they win. You understand that?"

I did.

I went.

I had one gown left. Navy silk. I'd worn it to a wedding four years ago. It still fit. Barely. I'd lost weight I couldn't afford to lose.

I did my own hair. Pulled it back. Simple. I didn't have money for a salon. I didn't have money for a cab either. I took the subway to Fifty-Ninth Street and walked the rest.

The Plaza glittered. Chandeliers. Marble. Women in gowns that cost more than my rent. Men in tuxedos that fit like they were born in them.

I walked in. I held my head up. I smiled at the faces I recognized.

Some smiled back. Most didn't.

I found a corner near the silent auction tables. I studied a framed photograph like it was the most interesting thing I'd ever seen. I sipped water from a champagne flute because I couldn't afford to drink and I needed something in my hands.

Then I heard her voice.

"Sienna!"

I turned.

Ashlyn moved through the crowd like she owned it. Maybe she did now. Her gown was emerald green. Silk. Beaded. It hugged her pregnant stomach. She looked radiant. Glowing. Everything a woman carrying the heir to the Webb fortune should look like.

She also looked familiar. Too familiar.

Then I realized. The cut of the dress. The neckline. The way it moved. It was almost identical to the gown I'd worn to this same gala three years ago. The ice-blue one. The one Marcos said made me look like a queen.

She'd copied it. On purpose.

She reached me. She smiled. She touched my arm like we were friends.

"I'm so glad you came," she said. Her voice was warm. Loud enough for the people nearby to hear. "It's so brave of you."

Brave. Like I was recovering from something. Like I was damaged.

I smiled back. "Thank you."

"How are you?" She tilted her head. Concerned. Sympathetic. "Really. How are you managing?"

"I'm fine."

"The girls miss you."

My hand tightened on the glass. "I see them Thursday."

"I know. They talk about you all the time." She rubbed her stomach. A small circle. Deliberate. "I try to make sure they feel loved. It's important. Especially now."

Now. While their mother is living in a studio in Brooklyn. While their mother can't afford to take them anywhere. While their mother is being erased.

People were watching. I felt their eyes. I kept smiling.

"That's kind of you," I said.

She leaned closer. Her perfume was expensive. Something French. "I really do forgive you, Sienna. For everything. I want you to know that."

Forgive me. For things I didn't do. For a miscarriage that never happened. For cruelty I never showed.

"I appreciate that," I said quietly.

She squeezed my arm. Then she stepped back. "I should go find Marcos. He's around here somewhere." She smiled again. Wider. "Enjoy the evening."

She walked away. The crowd parted for her. Closed behind her.

I stood there. I breathed. I counted to ten.

Then I turned back to the silent auction table. I stared at the framed photograph. I didn't see it. I just needed to look at something that wasn't people.

Five minutes passed. Maybe ten.

Then I heard the crash.

Loud. Sharp. Glass shattering against marble.

I turned.

Ashlyn stood near one of the columns. Her champagne glass was gone. Pieces of it glittered on the floor. Her right hand was pressed against her left forearm. Blood ran between her fingers.

Her face was twisted. Anguished. Terrified.

She looked right at me.

Then she screamed.

"She attacked me! Oh my God, she attacked me!"

The room stopped.

Every head turned. Every conversation died.

Ashlyn stumbled forward. Someone caught her. A man in a tuxedo. He looked at her arm. At the blood. At me.

"She's insane," Ashlyn sobbed. "She tried to hurt my baby!"

People moved toward her. Away from me. The circle around me widened. Empty space. Quarantine.

I didn't move. I couldn't.

My champagne flute was still in my hand. Water. Not champagne. I hadn't been anywhere near her.

But no one was looking at me. They were looking at her. At the blood. At the pregnant woman crying in someone's arms.

Then Marcos appeared. He pushed through the crowd. He saw Ashlyn. He saw the blood. He saw me.

His face went dark.

He walked toward me. Fast. Purposeful.

I took a step back.

He grabbed my arm. His fingers dug in. He pulled me toward the hallway. Away from the crowd. Away from the lights.

I tried to pull free. "Marcos, I didn't—"

He shoved me against the wall.

The air left my lungs. My head hit marble. The sound echoed.

"You touched her," he said. His voice was low. Controlled. Shaking with rage.

"I didn't. I swear—"

He hit me.

Open palm. Across my face. Hard enough that I tasted blood.

"You tried to hurt my son."

"No—"

He hit me again. Fist this time. My cheekbone. Something cracked.

I slid down the wall. My legs wouldn't hold me.

He crouched in front of me. His face was inches from mine.

"If you ever come near her again," he whispered, "I will make sure you never see Amelie, Madison, Nylah, or Eva again. Do you understand me? Never. They'll forget you existed."

He stood. He adjusted his cufflinks. He walked back toward the ballroom.

I stayed on the floor. My face was on fire. My vision blurred.

I heard voices. Murmurs. No one came to help.

I pulled myself up. I found a bathroom. I locked the door.

My reflection was a stranger. Swollen cheek. Split lip. Blood on my navy gown.

I pulled out my phone. My hands shook so hard I almost dropped it.

I scrolled to the contact I'd called once. Four days ago. The one who said he was coming.

I pressed call.

He answered on the first ring.

"Sienna."

I couldn't speak. I just cried.

"Where are you?" His voice changed. Sharper. Urgent.

"The Plaza," I whispered. "He's going to take them. He's going to take my girls."

"I'm ten minutes away. Stay on the phone. Do you hear me? Stay on the phone."

I slid down the bathroom wall. I held the phone against my ear.

I stayed on the phone.