The custody arrangement Gabby regretted signing before she’d finished writing her name on the damn paperwork less than three years ago required them to meet by September 1 to discuss and agree on a winter holiday and vacation schedule for Kennedy. The supposed legal genius Gabby paid a fortune to represent her in the divorce insisted this was a good idea. Gabby fought it back then and lost, and she’d been right to be skeptical.

Baines Fielding, self-made and very impressed with all he’d accomplished, did not negotiate. He didn’t concede. He did not lose . . . or more accurately, he used the threat of cutting off the money to make sure he never lost.

This round he weaponized Kennedy by refusing to give permission for the summer program she wanted to attend until “your mother meets her obligations.” So, fine, Gabby would engage in her agreed-upon yearly grovel for Kennedy’s benefit.

Gabby inhaled nice and deep, reaching for the endless well of self-control required to get through this meeting and the expected barbs Baines would aim at her. She refused to fix her hair or take a quick look in the car window before stepping up to his front door. The years of primping, tucking, sucking in, and wearing spiky heels for his pleasure ended with their divorce.

She rang the doorbell. Minutes passed without him showing up, so she rang it again.

Nothing.

She mentally debated walking away but feared he’d lie and insist she’d never showed up. She couldn’t risk losing even more time with her daughter. If he wanted to play games, she’d play. Maybe she’d sit on the hood of his pretty little sports car and wait for him to race out of the house, screaming about the paint. Even better, she’d walk in the front door.

After some rummaging in her purse, she found the extra key she wasn’t supposed to have. Coming inside without his permission would piss him off, possibly set off an alarm, but so what? The last week in August in DC meant stifling humidity. After a few minutes out of air-conditioning, her clothes stuck to her. She risked melting into a giant overdressed puddle.

She touched the knob and the door opened without the need for the key. No squealing alarm. No yelling about her trespassing in the house she’d picked out and decorated . . . then lost in the divorce.

“Baines?” She called out his name, then, in a much quieter voice, “Asshole?”

The words echoed back to her without a response.

Weird.

Her sandals clicked against the marble foyer. All that shiny white struck her as sleek and pretty when she’d lived there. Now it seemed stark and cold, which fit the current owner’s personality.

“Baines, what the hell? Where are you?” Her voice bounced off the two-story entrance as she moved around.