The crib arrived on a Tuesday morning, wrapped in cream silk and tied with champagne ribbons.
Emily was in the conservatory when Marcus brought her the delivery notice, her hand resting absently on the gentle swell of her belly. Eighteen weeks now. The baby had started moving—butterfly flutters that made Alexander press his palm to her stomach for hours, his gray eyes dark with an intensity that both thrilled and unnerved her.
"A gift, Mrs. Drake," Marcus said, his tone carefully neutral. "No return address. Security has scanned it—no explosives, no biological threats."
Emily's fingers tightened on the arm of her chair. Gifts without return addresses had become weapons in Eleanor's arsenal. The white lotus. The tabloid placements. The photographs of Emily's childhood home, burned to ash years ago, delivered with the simple note: Everything you love turns to cinder.
"Where is it?"
"The receiving bay. Mr. Drake has been notified—"
"I want to see it first."
