Chapter 6
Cole did not go quietly.
If anything, the more the walls closed in, the more vicious he became.
He hired a public relations firm to plant stories about me in the tabloids.
SOCIALITE WIFE ABDUCTS TWINS IN CHRISTMAS CUSTODY GRAB.
BENNETT HEIRESS USES BABIES AS PAWNS IN $50M DIVORCE.
POSTPARTUM CRAZE: INSIDE LAUREN WHITMORE’S BREAKDOWN.
Paparazzi camped at the end of the estate drive.
Strangers sent me hate mail, called me a gold digger, told me I deserved to lose my children.
My grandmother read one of the articles over breakfast one morning, folded the paper neatly in half, and smiled.
“Let him spend every penny he has left on lies,” she said. “The truth has a way of outlasting noise. Always has. Always will.”
She was right.
Sierra went on the record with a reputable financial news outlet.
She told the whole story.
The lies.
The money.
The clients Cole had defrauded.
Within forty-eight hours, three of his biggest clients had filed lawsuits.
The firm he had built from nothing suspended him, then fired him, then launched its own internal investigation.
His bank called his loans.
His country club revoked his membership.
His friends — the ones who had once laughed at his jokes and called him a genius — stopped returning his calls.
Money had bought Cole everything he had ever wanted.
But when the money was gone, so was everything else.
Still, he would not surrender.
Late one night, when the house was quiet, I woke to the sound of a stone hitting my bedroom window.
I sat up, my heart hammering.
Down on the lawn, in the dark, I saw a figure.
Cole.
He was standing by the rose garden, looking up at my window.
I reached for my phone.
Before I could dial security, he looked directly at me and held up something small and white.
A photograph.
I could not see what it was from that distance, but I knew.
It was one of the twins.
He held it there for a long, terrible moment, then dropped it on the grass and walked away into the dark.
The police picked him up three blocks from the estate.
He was charged with violating the restraining order, trespassing, and witness intimidation.
He made bail by morning, but the damage was done.
The judge added another year to the no-contact order.
She revoked his right to even supervised visits until the criminal case was resolved.
“You are playing a very dangerous game, Mr. Whitmore,” she said from the bench. “One more mistake, and you will await your trial from a jail cell.”
That night, I sat on the floor of the twins’ bedroom and watched them sleep.
They were bigger now.
Stronger.
Lily was trying to crawl.
Noah had two tiny teeth coming in on the bottom.
They did not know about courtrooms or lies or men who stood in the dark holding photographs.
They only knew warmth.
Milk.
Hands that held them and voices that sang them to sleep.
May you like
I kissed each of their soft foreheads.
“Almost over,” I whispered. “I promise. Almost over.”
