Page 93 of No Greater Love
I stared at the phone, feeling trapped. "So what do I do? If I agree to another meeting, I put Paige through that again. If I refuse, I hand Sarah ammunition."
"You talk to a lawyer. Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest."
"It's Friday night?—"
"Then Monday morning, first thing. Because I have a very bad feeling about what comes next."
As if summoned by her words, my phone buzzed again. This time it was an email notification.
Subject: AMENDED PETITION FOR MODIFICATION OF CUSTODY
My blood went cold as I opened the attachment. The legal language was dense, but one phrase jumped out at me like a neon sign:PETITION FOR PRIMARY PHYSICAL CUSTODY.
Not joint custody. Not visitation. Primary custody.
"Tasha," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Tasha.”
She was already reading over my shoulder, and I felt her body go rigid. "Thatfuckingbitch," she breathed. "She filed this before the meeting even happened."
The timestamp on the document was 4:47 PM. We'd still been in the coffee shop.
"She was never planning to take it slow," I realized. "The whole thing was a performance. Make me look unreasonable for refusing, then ambush me with this."
Tasha's face had gone pale, and she was gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles were white. "I think I'm going to be sick," she said, and rushed toward the bathroom.
I sat alone in my kitchen, staring at legal papers that threatened to take away my entire world, listening to the woman I loved being violently ill in the next room.
This wasn't about Sarah wanting a relationship with Paige. This was about Sarah wanting Paige, period. For whatever reason, for whatever purpose, she was going to try to take my daughter away from me.
And I had no idea how to stop her.
But as I listened to Tasha retching in the bathroom, one thing became crystal clear: I wasn't going to fight this battle alone.
We had built something beautiful together, the three of us. A family that worked, that loved each other, that made each other better.
Sarah could bring her lawyers and her money and her calculated manipulation.
But she was about to learn that some things were worth going to war for.
And she'd just declared war on the wrong family.
thirty-three
tasha
The law officeon Fifth Street had marble floors and leather furniture that probably cost more than Nate's car. The receptionist, perfectly coiffed and wearing what I recognized as a designer blazer, smiled at us with the kind of professional warmth that came with a price tag.
"Mr. and Mrs. Crawford?" she asked, and I didn't bother to correct her. "Mr. Harrison will see you now."
James Harrison looked like central casting's idea of a high-powered attorney—silver-haired, expensive suit, diplomas covering one wall like trophies. He listened to Nate's explanation with the kind of focused attention that made you feel like your case was the most important thing in the world.
Right up until he quoted his retainer.
"Fifty thousand dollars," Harrison said matter-of-factly. "That covers initial case preparation, discovery, and court appearances through resolution. Additional fees may apply depending on complexity."
I felt Nate go rigid beside me, saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard.
"That's... most of what I make in a year," Nate said quietly.
