You did not fully understand what had happened until you reached the driveway.
You moved through the Sterling mansion in Highland Park with Lucy pressed to your chest, your diaper bag slipping off one shoulder, your face burning so hard it felt feverish. Behind you, Victoria Sterling was still laughing in that polished, silvery way rich women laugh when they are sure the room belongs to them. One of Alec’s aunts called after you, “Oh honey, don’t be so sensitive,” as if your newborn screaming in your arms was a minor misunderstanding and not the exact sound of instinct begging for protection.
By the time the front door closed behind you, your hands were shaking too badly to unlock the car on the first try.
Dallas heat hit you like a wall, thick and bright and almost obscene after the cold cream-and-gold perfection of the house. Lucy was still crying, those tiny, outraged newborn cries that sounded too fragile to survive in a world like that one. You climbed into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and just sat there for a second, chest heaving, one hand gripping the wheel while the other cupped the back of your daughter’s head. The collar box was still in your purse, and knowing that made you feel sick.
