My husband let his mistress hold my eight-week-old daughter in my nursery while she wore the ivory silk dress I had bought for my own newborn portraits. Two minutes after the photographer sent me the gallery, I knew my marriage was over, but Landon still had no idea those files had reached me. And the photographs were not even the worst thing hiding inside that gallery.

The heavy oak front door clicked open downstairs.

“Greer? Honey?” Landon’s voice echoed up the foyer, drenched in theatrical tenderness. “I came home early. Dr. Vance called and said you checked yourself out against medical advice. Baby, you shouldn't be walking around.”

I didn't flinch. I sat down on the nursery rocking chair, pulling June into my arms, arranging my face into the picture of exhausted innocence.

His footsteps climbed the stairs, deliberate and measured. When he appeared in the doorway, he looked pristine in his tailored navy suit, loosening his tie with one hand while holding a cardboard soup container in the other. He had the kind of golden-boy charm that had convinced every partner at his firm that he was untouchable.

“There you are,” he said softly, stepping inside. He leaned down, pressing his lips to my temple. I felt the cold metal of his wedding band brush my jaw. “Why didn't you let me pick you up from St. Catherine’s? The doctors wanted you on IV antibiotics for another forty-eight hours.”

“The fever broke,” I murmured, keeping my eyes fixed on June. “I missed my baby. I couldn't bear being away from her.”

His eyes darted subtly to the smoke detector in the corner, then back down to me. “You’re burning up, Greer. You feel hot.”

“I’m fine, Landon.”

“You’re not fine. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard since the delivery.” He set the soup on the dresser, right beside where Harper’s earring backing still sat on the polished mahogany. He didn't even notice it. “Evelyn’s on her way. And… I asked Harper to come along too.”

My heart slammed against my ribs, but my hands remained entirely still on June’s swaddle. “Harper? Why would your corporate marketing director need to be here?”

Landon knelt beside the chair, the exact pose he had struck hours earlier beside Harper’s silk-clad knee. “Harper has training in infant trauma support, Greer. Her sister went through acute postpartum psychosis last year. She offered to stay in the guest room for a couple of weeks to handle June’s overnight needs so you can sleep.”

“A marketing director with trauma training,” I said softly.

“She’s family friends, Greer. She loves us.” He reached out, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with rehearsed affection. “We have to put June first. You’re not well. You've been having hallucinations, forgetting feedings, talking to yourself at night…”

The lie was so smooth, so utterly rehearsed, that for a split second the sheer psychopathy of it stole the breath from my lungs.

“I haven't forgotten a single feeding, Landon.”

“That’s what you remember, sweetheart,” he whispered, his eyes swimming with counterfeit grief. “Dr. Vance signed a preliminary observation report this afternoon based on your chart. Evelyn is bringing the paperwork. We’re going to petition for an emergency temporary rest order. Just thirty days at the Cedar Ridge Wellness Center in Vermont. While you recover, Harper and Evelyn will take care of June here.”

He wasn't just planning a divorce. He was planning an involuntary civil commitment.

Downstairs, the front door swung open again.

Loud, sharp heels clicked across the marble foyer, accompanied by the authoritative cadence of my mother-in-law’s voice: