“Oh, sweetie,” Caroline whispered. “Let’s go inside, okay?”

With both kids in tow, she threw her bag on the security scanner and quickly found a restroom. “We’ll get you cleaned up,” she said, taking off Addie’s undies, shoes, and socks. She rinsed the things in the sink and dried them under the hot hand dryer. As she helped Addie get dressed again, she looked into the little girl’s eyes.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “Did something upset you?”

Addie kept her eyes downcast.

“Sweetheart, can you say what it is?”

Addie shook her head. “I don’t want to go out there.”

Caroline’s heart nearly burst. The sight of Mick had frightened the little girl. “I’ll keep hold of your hand. You can sit right in between Grammy Dot and Grandpa Lyle. We’ll never let you go.” She prayed it wasn’t an empty promise.

She and the kids stepped out into the courthouse lobby, and she was stunned by the size of the crowd waiting to enter the courtroom. Her parents, sisters, and brothers, of course. A contingent from the Sewing Circle. Restaurant people. Neighbors who had known her all her life.

And Will. In a perfectly tailored suit that showed off his flawless military posture.

Caroline tried to hold it together as she joined her lawyer and they entered the courthouse. The interior rotunda was grand and intimidating, with twin winding staircases and a huge stained-glass dome glaring from high above the mosaic-tiled floor. She was numb with fear as they made their way to the courtroom. She caught Will’s eye as they passed, but the moment was quickly gone. When she’d first heard the news, Will had held her in his arms and let her vent. He doesn’t want the kids, she’d raged. He wants revenge.

She had not realized what she’d set in motion the day she’d confronted Mick in New York.

Her friends and family filled the courtroom. Addie and Flick went with her parents, and she and her lawyer took a seat at the table. She darted a glance at the other side. There was Mick, with a fresh haircut and conservative suit, flanked by a team of lawyers and the ever-present Rilla, anxious as a mouse sniffing the air.

Everyone rose as the judge entered. Theresa had said she couldn’t predict what Judge Rudolph would make of the situation. He had a reputation for being impatient and conservative, which might or might not work in Caroline’s favor. He had not been the presiding judge in the initial adoption proceeding, and that, Theresa admitted, was not ideal.

“I’m not fond of surprises,” the judge said. “And I don’t like sloppiness, particularly in a case like this involving young children. This adoption was presented as a clean and unencumbered case. And now we have Mr. Taylor, seeking to assert his parental rights to Francis and Adeline Baptiste. Is that correct, Mr. Taylor?”

Mick glanced at his lawyer, then said, “It is. Yes, that’s correct.”

“And on the other hand, we have Ms. Shelby, the children’s guardian, who wishes to become their adoptive parent?” Rudolph looked at Caroline.

“Yes, Your Honor. I’ve been their full-time guardian since their mother passed away last year, and—”

“I’ve read your statement,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I’m going to assign a guardian ad litem to be the children’s advocate, because the heart of the matter is the well-being of the children. I’ll hear from both sides, but I’m not likely to render a decision today.”

Mick scribbled a note to his lawyer in a rapid, impatient swipe of the pen.

One of his lawyers stood and folded her hands demurely. She wore Mrs. Claus–style wire glasses and her white hair was neatly coiffed. Her smile was sweet and just a little naive. Caroline had no doubt she had the instincts of a barracuda.

“As the DNA test shows unequivocally, Your Honor, Michael Taylor is the natural father of Adeline and Francis, and he has not relinquished his parental rights. This man founded a fashion empire, and he has the resources and the heart to give them a safe and happy home.”

Theresa got to her feet. “Your Honor, Mr. Taylor has never acknowledged the children’s existence or given these children support of any kind—”

“Because the mother kept them from him,” said one of Mick’s lawyers. “Sadly, Angelique Baptiste was a terrible addict. She was also an undocumented alien, as are the children. Their status is questionable—”

“Your Honor.” Theresa shot up again. “The very fact that Mr. Taylor would allow his representative to speak this way in front of the children indicates how little regard he has for their well-being.”

Caroline’s mother was already leaving the courtroom with the children. She paused at the door, spoke briefly with the bailiff, and headed outside.

When asked why he never offered to support the children, Mick claimed he had never met them and didn’t know their ages. He claimed Angelique was promiscuous, with a reputation for taking up with multiple partners.

“Given these claims,” Theresa interjected, “how would Mr. Taylor guess he’s the father?”

Mick’s lawyer was clearly prepared for this. “He saw their picture in a feature article boasting about Ms. Shelby’s newfound career success. The resemblance is quite remarkable, don’t you think?”

Caroline felt as if she might explode. She’d set this in motion when Orson had published a piece, complete with photos, about C-Shell and her life on the peninsula.

She was burning to point the finger at Mick and expose him as a violent, abusive man. Her lawyer wouldn’t go there. They had nothing but hearsay. The judge was required to rule on the facts, and Mick’s team would rip the story to shreds.

Theresa did have access to several indisputable facts, however. “Based on the date of Francis’s birth, we know that Angelique was seventeen when her son was born. This means she was sixteen when Mr. Taylor impregnated her. And just seventeen when he fathered her second child. The age of consent in Haiti is eighteen, so Mr. Taylor committed statutory rape.”

“Your Honor, this is character assassination,” said Mick’s grandmotherly lawyer. With mild-mannered sweetness, the woman explained that, during a high-fashion shoot on a Haitian beach, Angelique had told Mick she was nineteen, and they fell in love and had an affair. But Angelique had an unfortunately promiscuous nature. When she arrived in New York City with her young children, everyone thought the father was someone back in her native Haiti.

It wasn’t enough to destroy Angelique’s reputation. Caroline soon learned the reason Rilla Stein had come. “Ms. Shelby was employed under contract to Mr. Taylor,” Rilla explained to the judge. “The association ended badly when she copied his designs and tried to pass them off as her own.”

The words thundered in Caroline’s ears. She felt a wave of nausea.

Across the aisle, Mick portrayed himself as the wounded but magnanimous victor. Caroline saw herself depicted as a petty, vengeful underling who had copied designs from her former boss and sought to punish him by absconding with his children.

“There are some troubling aspects to this situation,” said the judge. “However, the state has a duty to honor the natural parent . . .”

The gavel came up. Hovered. Theresa’s phone screen lit with a silent alert. She quickly stood. “A moment, Your Honor. My colleague is here with additional information.”

“Did you not hear me, Ms. Bond? I don’t like surprises.”

“It’s—I do understand, and I apologize.” Theresa spoke slowly, as if trying to cause a delay. “I can’t apologize enough.”

Mick’s attorney clearly recognized the ploy. The grandmotherly one also stood. “Please, Your Honor, this is simply a—”

The door at the rear of the courtroom swished open, offering a glimpse of eager reporters and curiosity seekers. Willow slipped inside and hurried over to Theresa, handing her a folder. With an impatient gesture of his hand, the judge took the folder from the clerk and scanned the documents. A moment later, he regarded the attorneys with a face made of stone. “In my chambers at once,” he said. “We’ll take a half-hour recess.”

Caroline teetered on the verge of a panic attack. She slipped out a side door of the courtroom and took refuge in a nearby conference room, dim and close and full of shadows. Turning toward the window, she pressed her hands against her midsection and tried to regulate her breathing. She was going to lose her kids. The judge was going to give them to the man who beat their mother. Already she was plotting ways to flee with Addie and Flick, to go into hiding, to—

Someone else came into the conference room. She turned and found herself face-to-face with Mick.

A rod of cold steel stiffened her spine. She glared at him. “What do you want?”

“The judge called a recess,” Mick said. “Figured I’d wait here.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she snapped. “I mean, what do you want? What’s your ask? You don’t want these kids.”

“I warned you back in New York—walk away from Eau Sauvage. Admit you lied when you accused me of hitting Angelique.”