Chapter 2

The family gathering at the Montgomery estate felt different that Sunday. I should have trusted my instincts when Ivanna insisted on bringing little Tommy along, her smile too bright, her movements too calculated. But I was distracted, my mind still reeling from Patricia Winters' call confirming our divorce papers were ready for filing.

"Faye, could you help me get Tommy some juice from the kitchen?" Ivanna asked, her voice honey-sweet as she bounced Andrew's four-year-old son on her lap. The irony wasn't lost on me—she was asking me to care for the child she'd conceived through betrayal.

I nodded, grateful for an excuse to escape the suffocating atmosphere of forced family normalcy. In the kitchen, I poured apple juice into Tommy's favorite sippy cup, the one decorated with cartoon dinosaurs. When I returned to the living room, Ivanna was whispering something to Tommy, her hand gently stroking his dark hair.

"Here you go, sweetheart," I said, offering him the cup. Tommy took it eagerly, his small fingers wrapping around the handles.

Twenty minutes later, Tommy was rubbing his eyes, his usual boundless energy suddenly depleted. "I'm sleepy, Aunt Faye," he mumbled, swaying slightly on his feet.

"Poor little thing," Ivanna cooed, scooping him up. "All this excitement has worn him out. I'll put him down for a nap in the guest room upstairs."

Andrew barely looked up from his phone, too absorbed in whatever business crisis demanded his attention. I watched Ivanna carry Tommy up the grand staircase, something cold settling in my stomach. But I pushed the feeling aside—I was being paranoid, seeing threats where none existed.

An hour passed. Then two. The house grew quiet as family members began to leave. Andrew was in his study, taking calls. I was in the garden, trying to find peace among the roses when Ivanna's scream shattered the afternoon silence.

"Tommy! Tommy, where are you?" Her voice carried pure panic as she burst through the back door. "He's gone! He's not in the guest room!"

Andrew appeared instantly, his face white with fear. "What do you mean gone?"

"I went to check on him and the bed was empty!" Ivanna sobbed, her performance flawless. "The window was open. Someone must have taken him!"

Chaos erupted. Andrew barked orders at the staff, demanding they search every room, every closet. I joined the frantic search, my heart pounding despite my complicated feelings about the situation. Whatever my issues with Andrew and Ivanna, Tommy was an innocent child.

It was Andrew who found the evidence. In my purse, which I'd left on the hallway table, he discovered a piece of Tommy's torn shirt and a handwritten note: "If you want to see your son again, wait for further instructions."

The paper fluttered from Andrew's trembling hands as his eyes met mine across the foyer. In that moment, I saw something die in his gaze—whatever remnant of love or trust had survived our crumbling marriage vanished completely.

"You," he breathed, his voice barely human. "It was you."

"Andrew, no," I started, but the words felt inadequate against the evidence literally in his hands. "I would never—"

"You're leaving me." His voice grew stronger, more dangerous. "You've been planning this. The divorce papers, the lawyers—this is your revenge."

"That's not—" I tried to step toward him, but he backed away like I was poison.

"Don't." The single word cracked like a whip. "Don't you dare lie to me anymore."

Ivanna appeared at the top of the stairs, her face streaked with tears that looked remarkably genuine. "Andrew, please, we need to call the police. We need to find Tommy."

"No police," Andrew said, his eyes never leaving mine. "Not yet. First, my dear wife is going to tell me exactly where my son is."

The way he said 'wife' made my blood freeze. There was no love in it, no recognition of our shared history. Only cold, calculating fury.

"I don't know where he is," I whispered, but even to my own ears, the words sounded hollow against the damning evidence.

Andrew moved toward me with predatory grace, and for the first time in seven years of marriage, I was truly afraid of my husband.

"Then we're going to have a very long conversation," he said, his hand closing around my wrist with bruising force. "Upstairs. Now."

As he dragged me toward our bedroom, I caught a glimpse of Ivanna's face. For just a moment, her mask slipped, and I saw something that made my blood turn to ice: satisfaction.

The trap had been set perfectly, and I had walked right into it.