The shock of the ice-cold water knocked the breath clean out of my lungs.

Two days later, the rain returned to the city, washing the grime from the streets.

I was sitting in the executive tea room of the Morrison Tower, sipping decaffeinated Earl Grey while reviewing the brand restructuring proposals. We were officially dropping the name “Morrison” from the parent conglomerate. From next month onward, it would simply be known as *The Meridian Vanguard Group*.

The heavy oak doors of the tea room opened, and Arthur Bell stepped inside, his expression tight and wary.

“Cassidy,” Arthur said quietly. “Diane Morrison is downstairs in the lobby.”

I set my teacup down. “I thought Mateo had orders to keep the family off the premises.”

“He does,” Arthur replied. “She isn't trying to force her way up. She’s kneeling on the marble floor of the public lobby, weeping in front of dozens of tourists and junior staff. She’s threatening to stay there until you speak to her.”

A cold sigh escaped my lips. “Diane always did understand theatrical manipulation.”

“Should I have building security carry her out to the sidewalk?” Arthur asked.

I stood up, smoothing the front of my cream cashmere dress. “No. Let's hear what my former mother-in-law has to say when she isn't holding a bucket of ice water.”

When I stepped out of the private elevator into the grand, four-story lobby of Morrison Tower, the scene was already causing a scene.

Diane Morrison, once the undisputed queen of Manhattan society, was a shattered shell of her former self. Her designer Chanel suit was stained and crumpled, her expensive blowout was matted with rain, and her mascara had run down her cheeks in dark, greasy streaks. She was kneeling directly on the polished granite floor, surrounded by a loose ring of onlookers holding up their smartphones.

When she saw the elevator doors slide open and recognized me, she let out a theatrical wail, scrambling across the floor on her knees like a penitent pilgrim.

“Cassidy! Oh, God, Cassidy!” Diane cried out, reaching her hands toward my feet.

Mateo and two security officers instantly stepped forward, forming an impenetrable barrier between us.

“Stay back, Mrs. Morrison,” Mateo commanded, his hand resting on his utility belt.

Diane didn't stop crying. She looked up at me with wide, pleading eyes, clutching her chest as if her heart were physically breaking.

“Cassidy, please! Forgive me! I was wrong! I was terribly, terribly wrong!” she sobbed, her voice echoing through the vaulted lobby. “I was under so much stress! Brendan’s father’s death broke me! I didn't know what I was doing on Sunday! The water... it was just a silly, thoughtless joke! You know how I get when I have a glass of wine!”

A few junior employees in the crowd exchanged disgusted glances. Everyone in the building had seen the footage; everyone knew what she had done.

“A joke, Diane?” I asked, my voice carrying clearly across the quiet marble expanse. “Pouring ice water over a woman carrying your grandchild was a joke?”

Diane flinched, but quickly seized upon the word.

“Yes! My grandchild!” she cried, tears streaming down her hollow cheeks. “Cassidy, think of the baby! That child carries Morrison blood! She is my granddaughter! You can't cut me out of her life! You can't let her grow up without her grandmother!”

I looked down at her from behind the safety of my security team, feeling no anger, no hatred—only a vast, hollow pity for a woman who had worshiped vanity her entire life, only to find it could not buy her a single shred of real love.

“When you dumped that water on me, Diane,” I said softly, “you didn't care about that child’s blood. You didn't care if the shock caused premature labor. You didn't care if she lived or died. You only cared about humiliating me so you could feel superior for another five minutes.”

“No! That’s not true! I love her already!” Diane shrieked, clawing at the hem of Mateo’s trousers. “Cassidy, they took my house! They took my jewelry! I slept in a homeless intake shelter last night! Me! Diane Morrison! Do you have any idea what those people smell like? Do you know what they eat?”

The crowd around the lobby groaned in disgust. Even at her lowest, Diane could not hide her grotesque snobbery.

“You have your health, Diane,” I said evenly. “And you have whatever personal possessions you owned before you married Thomas. That is more than my father had when he built this company from nothing.”

“I need money, Cassidy!” Diane broke down completely, dropping the pretense of maternal affection and revealing the raw, ugly desperation beneath. “Just give me five hundred thousand dollars! A small apartment on the Upper West Side! A modest allowance! Just enough so I don't starve! You’re a billionaire! You won't even notice it!”

I took a slow breath, resting my hand against my belly. My daughter gave a sharp, strong kick, as if casting her own vote in the matter.

“Arthur,” I said without looking back.

Arthur stepped to my side. “Yes, Chairwoman?”

“Contact the city’s social services department,” I instructed him. “Provide Mrs. Morrison with the standard application paperwork for municipal subsidized housing and emergency food assistance vouchers. The Meridian Foundation will cover her first month’s supply of groceries from the local food pantry.”

Diane’s jaw dropped in sheer horror. “Food pantry? Subsidized housing? Are you insane? I am an aristocrat!”

“You are an unemployed citizen facing civil bankruptcy, Diane,” I replied coldly. “And as for my daughter... she will grow up knowing who her family is. And she will never, ever be subjected to a woman whose soul is as cold as ice.”

I turned around and walked back toward the private elevator.

Behind me, Diane let out an animalistic shriek of rage, thrashing against Mateo’s grip as two female police officers, called by the front desk, walked in from the street to place her under arrest for trespassing and disturbing the peace.

As the elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the sound of Diane’s screaming, a sudden, sharp cramp tightened across my lower abdomen.

I gasped, stumbling slightly against the handrail.

Arthur Bell caught my elbow instantly, his face draining of color. “Cassidy? What’s wrong?”