Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Apple
Six months passed.
The world outside moved in rapid, dramatic turns. The scandal at Vance & Pierce had made local business headlines. Landon had been summarily fired from his partnership position, his equity shares frozen pending the resolution of our divorce and the internal financial audit. Brielle Vaughn had been blacklisted from every major public relations firm on the West Coast.
In contrast, my world had become bright, beautiful, and filled with deep, overwhelming joy.
My triplet daughters were six months old now. They were home.
The nursery that had once held three empty, tragic white cribs was now alive with soft laughter, sweet baby babble, and the gentle scent of baby lotion. Clara was robust and curious, constantly trying to roll over; Daisy was a happy, giggling baby who loved music; and tiny Violet, though still requiring a small pulse-oximeter monitor on her foot at night, was thriving, her cheeks chubby and soft.
My mother had moved in with me temporary to help, and between the two of us, our home was a fortress of peace and love.
Then, on a sunny Tuesday morning, a knock came at the door.
I opened it to find Eleanor Pierce—Landon's mother.
Eleanor was a woman who had spent her entire life obsessed with social standing, high-society luncheons, and maintaining the illusion of the "perfect Pierce family." She wore a tailored beige Chanel suit, pearl earrings, and a stiff, rehearsed expression.
"Corinne," Eleanor said, her voice strained, carrying an artificial, fragile warmth. "May I come in?"
I stood in the doorway, holding six-month-old Clara against my hip. "You have five minutes, Eleanor."
Eleanor stepped into the entryway, her eyes instantly darting around the bright, sunlit living room. When she saw the three cribs, the colorful play mats, and the baby toys scattered neatly on the rug, a flash of genuine emotion flickered across her cold face.
"They are... they are beautiful," Eleanor murmured, reaching out a hand toward Clara.
I pulled Clara back slightly. "What do you want, Eleanor?"
Eleanor sighed, pulling a pristine linen handkerchief from her purse. "Corinne... this war has gone on long enough. Look at what has happened! Landon has lost his job. He’s living in a small rented apartment in Bellevue. His reputation is ruined. He can't even get an interview at a mid-tier advisory firm!"
"Landon brought every bit of that on himself," I said calmly.
"He made a mistake!" Eleanor cried out, her composure slipping into desperate plea. "He was under immense pressure! Men make foolish choices when they are stressed, Corinne! But he is your husband! He is the father of these three innocent little girls!"
"He left those innocent little girls to die on an operating table while he was drinking champagne with his mistress," I reminded her, my voice dropping an octave into pure, cold steel. "He called my pain an 'emergency fit' and laughed about starting a new life while I was being cut open."
"He regrets it!" Eleanor insisted, stepping closer, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "He cries every night, Corinne! He wants to come home. He wants to rebuild his family. He’s willing to go to marriage counseling, to hand over his personal passwords, to do whatever you ask! Please... don't let your pride ruin these children's lives. A girl needs her father."
"A girl needs a real man to show her how she deserves to be treated," I countered softly. "Not a coward who abandons her when she’s vulnerable."
Eleanor’s face hardened, her artificial warmth instantly evaporating, revealing the same manipulative arrogance that had raised Landon.
"You think you’re so strong, don't you?" Eleanor sneered, straightening her Chanel jacket. "You think Julian Sterling is going to protect you forever? Landon’s legal team is filing a motion for mandatory joint custody tomorrow morning. You will be forced to hand those three babies over to Landon every other weekend. Do you really want strangers taking care of your six-month-old daughters in a tiny apartment because you refused to forgive your husband?"
A sudden, chilling fear gripped my heart. Joint custody. The thought of handing Clara, Daisy, and fragile Violet—who still needed her pulse-oximeter—over to Landon for unsupervised weekends terrified me to my very core.
"He doesn't even know how to hold them," I whispered, my grip tightening on Clara.
"Then you’d better start teaching him, Corinne," Eleanor snapped with a cruel, triumphant smile. "Or the family court judge will teach you a lesson in shared parental rights. Good day."
May you like
Eleanor turned and walked out, slamming the front door behind her.
I stood in the hallway, holding Clara against my chest, listening to the quiet, rhythmic beep of Violet’s baby monitor from the nursery, feeling the cold shadow of Landon’s final trap closing in around us.
