She had been recounting the night — glowing, laughing about what had been happening with her time with him and living with him, telling them how mush relief she felt when Phei had carried Emily like she was made of glass, how he had looked at her and Sierra like they were the only things that mattered — when the roar had torn through the night.
"HAROLD!"
The sound had hit the Whitmore Estate like a physical wave — a roar so deep and sudden it felt like the sky itself had screamed his name in rage. Windows rattled in their frames.
Her father's glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the hardwood like a gunshot in church.
Her mother's face went pale in a way Maddie had never seen before — and this was a woman who'd once caught her husband balls-deep in the mistress at their own dinner party and responded by calmly pouring vintage Bordeaux over the woman's head, finishing dessert, and then asking the staff to escort the "guest" to the curb.
