He had never feared their control.
He had feared their competence.
That evening, Andrew appeared in the lobby of the Langford apartment building.
He was not allowed upstairs.
From the twenty-sixth floor, Olivia watched him through the security cameras. He stood beneath the lobby lights wearing a navy jacket, unshaven and furious, attempting to look betrayed. The concierge, an ex-Marine named Powell, remained behind the desk with calm professionalism.
Andrew called.
This time she answered.
“I am downstairs,” he said.
“I know.”
“Come down.”
“No.”
“Olivia, I am still Ethan’s father.”
“Yes. That is the only reason this conversation is happening.”
His breathing grew harsher.
“You cannot cut me off from my son.”
“I am not cutting you off. I am protecting him from instability.”
“You think your money makes you God?”
“No. I think your conduct makes you unsafe.”
“I made one mistake.”
Olivia looked at the file beside her.
