Chloe looked at her mother’s unyielding, furious face. Then she looked at Ethan, who was staring at her with a fierce, unwavering devotion that defied logic and wealth. Chloe swallowed hard. With violently trembling hands, she reached up and unhooked her IV bag from the metal pole.
“I’m staying,” Chloe whispered.
Eleanor’s face flushed a deep, terrifying shade of crimson. The mask of aristocratic calm completely shattered. “You foolish, stupid little girl,” she hissed, her voice vibrating with rage. “You are dead to me. Don’t you ever dare call my house.”
She turned on her designer heel, the sound sharp as a gunshot, and marched away down the hall. Mr. Sterling gave us a pitying, tight-lipped look before trailing behind her like an obedient, well-paid shadow.
The next three weeks were a trial by fire unlike anything I had ever experienced.
True to her word, Eleanor Harrington severed Chloe completely. Her cell phone was deactivated the next morning. Her bank accounts were frozen. She was left with nothing but the hospital gown she was wearing.
We brought Chloe and a fragile, four-pound Lily home to our tiny Oak Street apartment. We converted my small walk-in closet into a makeshift nursery, lining the walls with blankets to block out the noise of the street traffic. The reality of our defiance set in with crushing weight.
I swallowed my pride and took on a third, graveyard shift cleaning an office building just to afford the specialized preemie formula and the endless stream of diapers. I was sleeping in ninety-minute increments, my body aching perpetually, my mind a fog of exhaustion.
