“Mommy, do I have to share when I blow out the candles too?”

On Monday morning, Logan packed his bags again.

This time, it wasn't a supposed business trip to Chicago. This was his "executive leadership retreat" in the Northwoods of Wisconsin—a three-day weekend at an exclusive resort where cell phone reception was notoriously spotty.

“I won’t have much service up near Door County, Clara,” he said, kissing my cheek with that now-familiar hurried dismissal. “Don’t worry if my calls don't go through. I’ll make it up to you and Emma next weekend.”

“Take all the time you need, Logan,” I replied, handing him his travel mug. “Make sure you get plenty of rest.”

Ten minutes after his Audi pulled away from the curb, a black town car pulled into my driveway.

Eleanor Vance stepped out, wearing oversized designer sunglasses and carrying a leather briefcase that looked heavy enough to sink a boat. Behind her was a process server named Frank, a burly former sheriff’s deputy with a mustache and an expression that suggested he had seen every dirty trick humanity had to offer.

“Is he gone?” Eleanor asked, stepping into the foyer.

“Wheels up,” I confirmed, locking the deadbolt behind her.

“Good. Marcus ran the flight manifests,” Eleanor said, dropping her briefcase onto the dining room table with a thud. “Logan didn’t drive north to Wisconsin. He drove to O’Hare, parked in long-term, and boarded a private charter to Cabo San Lucas with Sienna and Mason Caldwell.”

My heart gave a dull, hollow thud. Not out of heartbreak—that well had run dry days ago—but out of disgust. He had taken his mistress and her child on an international luxury vacation while telling me he was in a rustic cabin in Wisconsin.

“And here is the masterpiece,” Eleanor continued, pulling out a sheaf of papers. “Logan scheduled the official service of divorce papers for tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock. His attorney, Doug Vance, filed the petition electronically this morning in Lake County, citing irreconcilable differences and petitioning for temporary emergency custody of Emma Bradley based on ‘maternal instability and educational abandonment.’”

“Educational abandonment?” I asked, my voice rising in disbelief.

“Logan claimed in his sworn affidavit that you refused to enroll Emma in an accredited kindergarten program for the upcoming term, while he had already secured her placement at St. Jude’s Academy,” Eleanor said with cold amusement. “He was planning to have you served while he was in Cabo, ensuring that you would spend seventy-two hours in a blind panic before he returned to play the reasonable, rescuing father.”

“What’s our move?”

Eleanor smiled—a tight, predatory slash across her face. “Our move is that we don’t wait for two o’clock tomorrow. Frank?”

The process server stepped forward, holding a manila envelope sealed with red tape.

“Logan forgot one very important legal rule,” Eleanor explained. “When an individual leaves the country during an active domestic dispute involving disputed minor dependents and contested marital real estate, the opposing party can file an emergency *ex parte* injunction for the immediate preservation of assets and temporary physical custody.”

“Where did we file?”

“Right here in Cook County,” Eleanor said. “Judge Miller’s courtroom. Judge Miller is seventy-two years old, has four daughters, and despises corporate executives who hide assets in offshore shell companies. At nine-thirty this morning, Judge Miller signed an emergency freezing order on every single bank account, credit card, and brokerage portfolio associated with Logan Bradley, Vanguard Crest Holdings, and Caldwell Enterprises LLC.”

I looked at the paperwork. “Every account?”

“Every single one,” Eleanor said. “Including the corporate platinum Amex Logan currently has tucked into his Gucci wallet in Cabo San Lucas.”

A small, wild laugh escaped my lips. “He’s in Mexico with no money?”

“He has whatever cash is in his pocket,” Eleanor replied. “The private villa he rented in Cabo? Secured with that frozen corporate card. The charter jet home? Paid with an account that currently has a zero-dollar clearing status. By tonight, the management of that resort will be knocking on his bungalow door asking for an alternative method of payment.”

“And what about Emma?”

“Judge Miller granted you sole temporary legal and physical custody, with a mandatory travel restriction prohibiting Logan from removing Emma from Cook County without a written court order,” Eleanor said, handing me the signed injunction bearing the gold seal of the circuit court. “Logan’s little ‘Transition Plan’ just hit a concrete wall at eighty miles an hour.”

“What do I do now?” I asked.

“Now,” Eleanor said, tapping her manicured nails against the table, “you and Emma pack a couple of suitcases. You are going to spend the next three days at my lakefront home in Michigan City. Relax. Eat croissants. Let Emma swim in the indoor pool. Let Logan return to an empty house, a frozen bank account, and a stack of felony summonses taped to his front door.”

Two hours later, Emma and I were on the highway heading east, the skyline of Chicago shrinking in my rearview mirror.

Emma was singing along to the *Little Mermaid* soundtrack from the backseat, clutching her sea turtle doll. For the first time in six months, the suffocating weight in my chest was gone. I wasn't running away. I wasn't hiding.