It was past midnight when Victoria slipped out of the French doors. The estate security was tight, but she knew the blind spots–William had taught them to her years ago when they used to sneak out to the gardens to escape his parents.
She made it to the southern perimeter, where the wrought-iron gate separated the manicured grounds from the wilder forest beyond.
A shadow detached itself from the trees.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” Dominic Valerius whispered, stepping into the moonlight. “It’s freezing.”
“I can’t breathe in that house,” Victoria replied, gripping the cold iron bars.
Dominic reached through the gate. He didn’t touch her skin; he wrapped his hand around hers where it clutched the metal. The contact was electric, a lifeline in the dark.
“I have lawyers working on the custody threat,” Dominic promised, his voice low and fierce. “Beatrice is bluffing. No judge will give an infant to a great-grandmother over a capable mother.”
“William isn’t bluffing,” Victoria whispered. “I see the way he looks at my stomach. He’s obsessed.”
“Let him look,” Dominic said. He leaned his forehead against the bars, inches from hers. “He can build all the walls he wants. I will tear them down brick by brick.”
They stayed there for a long moment, breathing the same air, separated by the iron divide. Dominic tilted his head, and for a second, Victoria leaned in, the memory of their shared silence in the hospital pulling her toward him.
High above, in the master suite of the main house, William stood by the window. He watched through the darkness. He saw the silhouette of his wife. He saw the shadow of his enemy. He placed his hand against the cold glass, a silent, impotent roar building in his chest.