CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CLARA
CLARA
I woke up to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Nash's bedroom—our bedroom now—and the faint sound of Mia giggling from downstairs.
It had been two weeks since I'd officially moved in, and every morning still felt surreal.
Like I'd wake up and discover this was all an elaborate dream and I wasn't actually living in a penthouse on Wall Street with a distant view of the Statue of Liberty and a custom greenhouse to hold all my exotic botanical garden plants.
Nash wasn't actually my husband. This perfect life wasn't actually mine.
But then Nash would roll over and pull me close or Mia would come running in asking for pancakes, and I'd remember: this was impossibly, wonderfully real. I still had my old apartment, but I’d left behind anything we didn’t need.
This was my home now.
I padded out to the kitchen in one of Nash's T-shirts, a Case Western Reserve tee from his home state of Ohio, following the sound of Mia's laughter.
She was perched on the counter in her jammies—something I normally wouldn't allow, but rules were always bent for Naff—helping him crack eggs into a bowl.
"Mommy!" She spotted me and waved enthusiastically. "We making breakfast!"
"How lovely." I kissed the top of her head, then stood on my toes to kiss Nash. "Good morning."
"Morning, beautiful." He handed me an iced coffee, exactly how I liked it—which looked just the same as his iced coffee. "You’re just in time."
I leaned against the counter, sipping my coffee and unable to fight a smile. Mia was wearing her dragon pajamas, her hair in the lopsided ponytail Nash had attempted. He was in sweatpants and nothing else, all tattooed muscle and domestic bliss.
This. This was everything I'd never dared to hope for.
After breakfast, Nash retreated to his home office for a few hours—he had calls with lawyers about the ongoing lawsuit against the city, which didn’t seem likely to resolve anytime soon.
Since Little Sprouts was closed today due to a plumbing issue, Mia and I played in her room.
Her new room was three times the size of her old bedroom and filled with toys and books and a coloring nook by the window.
I'd brought all my plants when we moved in, and they were scattered throughout the penthouse now, thriving in the abundant light. Nash said it made the place feel like a home instead of a showroom.
By early afternoon, Mia was down for her nap, and I had the penthouse to myself.
Nash was still on calls, his office door closed.
So I did what I'd been doing most afternoons lately—I curled up on the couch with my laptop, classical music playing softly from the speakers, and caught up on emails and research.
This was my favorite part of the day. The quiet. The focus. The feeling that I was building toward something.
I'd been working with Nash on the Queens neighborhood situation.
Over the past two weeks, we'd visited several times, meeting with residents, hearing their concerns.
These were families who'd lived there for generations, small business owners who'd built their livelihoods brick by brick.
They were terrified of what Sebastian Cross's Meridian project would mean for them.
And I'd become increasingly invested. Not just because Nash cared, but because these were the kinds of communities I'd gone into urban planning to protect. The ones that got bulldozed in the name of "progress" and "development" while rich developers got richer.
I was in the middle of learning about zoning variance applications when the intercom in the foyer buzzed. I walked over and pressed the button. Security from downstairs said there was a courier in the lobby who needed to hand deliver something.
Frowning, I okayed the delivery, and lingered in the foyer. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. A uniformed man stood in the hall, holding a large envelope.
"Delivery for Clara Nightingale," he said after I opened the door.
My new last name still gave me a little thrill every time I heard it. I signed for the envelope and closed the door, turning it over in my hands. It was from a law firm I didn't recognize. My belly cinched into a nut of anxiety.
I tore it open, pulling out the sheaf of papers inside.
The words at the top made my vision blur: EMERGENCY PETITION FOR CUSTODY MODIFICATION
PRESTON CLARKE, Petitioner, vs. CLARA NIGHTINGALE (née Whitehall), Respondent
Petitioner hereby requests emergency modification of custody arrangement on the grounds that Respondent is unfit to maintain primary custody of minor child, MIA CLARKE.
The rest of the document was a litany of accusations that made me feel sick: I had married Nash too quickly, was exploiting Mia for financial gain and social media purposes, and exposing Mia to unsafe conditions, even accusations of Nash’s business being criminal in nature and casting doubt on his lifestyle suitability.
I couldn't breathe. The room was spinning.
Preston was trying to take Mia. After three years of barely being a father, of breaking promises and refusing to show up—he was claiming I was the unfit parent?
"Clara? What’s wrong"
I looked up to find Nash standing in the doorway of his office, concern etched on his face.
I couldn't speak. I just held out the papers with trembling hands.
He crossed the room in big strides, taking the documents from me. I watched his expression darken as he read, his jaw tightening with each line.
"That motherfucker," he breathed.
"He's trying to take her, Nash. He's—" My voice broke. "He wants to take my baby."
"He won’t be able to." Nash set the papers down and pulled me into his arms. "This is bullshit. Anyone can file a petition. That doesn't mean he'll win."
"But what if he does? What if a judge believes him? I did marry you quickly. We did move in together fast. And the social media stuff—" I thought about all the photos Nash had posted. Family photos. Photos of Mia. "What if they think I'm exploiting her?"
"You're not exploiting anyone. You're being a mother. A damn good one."
"But the contract." I pulled back to look at him. "We literally have a contract. If that comes out in court, if Preston's lawyers find out about it—"
"They won't." Nash's hands framed my face. "Just breathe. We're going to handle this."
"How?"
"We’re going to get you a lawyer. The best family law attorney in New York. Second, we document everything—every time Preston failed to show up, every broken promise. Third—" He paused, his jaw tightening. "Third, we move up the committee meeting."
I blinked. "What?"
"The inheritance committee. We were waiting to establish legitimacy, give the marriage more time. But we can't wait anymore. We need to get the inheritance secured."
"Is now the best time?"
"I don’t know if there will be a best time.
" His hands moved to my shoulders. "But more importantly, finishing up with the committee bullshit first means we have one less thing to worry about.
And having that extra money means we can spare no expense.
Just bury Preston in legal fees until he backs off. "
My head was spinning. "Nash, I don't know if I'm ready for the committee. What if they see through us?"
"They won't. Clara, we've been living together. We're happy. This looks real because it is real. The committee will see that."
"But—"
"No buts." His voice was firm, bordering on sharp. "We need to do this. Soon. This week if possible."
I'd never heard him sound like this—urgent, almost desperate. The easy warmth that usually colored his tone was buried under layers of stress.
"Okay," I whispered. "We'll set up the committee meeting."
He studied my face, as though looking for some answer there. "I'm not going to let him take her. Mia is not going anywhere."
I wanted to believe him. But as I stood there in his arms, looking at those legal papers on the counter, all I could think was what have I done?
I'd thought I was protecting Mia by marrying Nash. Securing our future. Giving her stability.
But what if I'd just given Preston exactly the ammunition he needed to take her away from me?
We spent the rest of the afternoon in crisis mode.
Nash got a recommendation for a family attorney named Heather Stone—apparently the most ruthless custody lawyer in Manhattan whose tagline ‘Your win is set in Stone’ was not an exaggeration. We had an appointment with her first thing Monday morning.
Then Nash called his own lawyer to arrange the committee meeting. He said he'd push for later this week, that the committee members were usually available on short notice.
Through it all, I felt numb, like I was watching this happen to someone else.
Mia woke up from her nap oblivious, asking for a snack and wanting to watch her favorite show. I sat with her on the couch, holding her close, breathing in her little-girl smell of strawberry shampoo and sunshine.
I couldn't lose her. I couldn't.
Nash ordered dinner and we ate mostly in silence, lost in our thoughts, save for the preschooler questions that peppered the dinner. Do dragons lay eggs? What’s Naff favorite color? We go to school tomorrow?
After we put Mia to bed, Nash poured us both generous glasses of wine and we sat on the couch, the custody papers spread out on the coffee table. Just looking at them ruined any semblance of a good mood I’d cobbled together.
"So what do we think the committee meeting will be like?" I asked finally. “Did your lawyer give you any idea?”
Nash set his wine glass aside, pulling something up on his phone.
"He sent me this document. But it’s not super helpful.
Apparently, there are five committee members—my grandfather's former business partners, his lawyer, and a family friend.
It says here that questions can cover a wide range of topics. "
"A wide range?" I scoffed. “Great.”
"I’m not worried. They want to know we're legitimate. And we are."
"And what if they don't believe us?"
"They will. We've been married for going on two months. We're living together. We have documentation—photos, witnesses, the whole thing."
He made it sound so simple. But I was so nervous. I couldn’t tell if the twist in my gut was from the custody paperwork, this committee meeting, or both. "When do you think the committee meeting will be?"
"The lawyer will call tomorrow with options. I’m hoping it’s soon." He rubbed his face, exhaustion evident. "I'm sorry, babe. I know this is a lot. The lawsuit, the committee, now this custody thing—"
"It's not your fault Preston filed."
"No, but the timing..." He trailed off, jaw tight.
"Everything's happening at once. The Gideon project is in legal limbo. We're fighting the city. We’re fighting Sebastian. Now we’ll be fighting Preston.” When his electric blue gaze swung my way, I saw how heavy this was for him.
"We need something resolved. Just one thing.
I can't keep spinning plates waiting for them all to crash. "
I'd never seen him like this—stressed, short-tempered, on edge. It made my chest tight with worry. And it made something else creep in—guilt.
Half of his problems were from me, and I wasn’t dumb enough to miss that.
"Nash—"
"I’m sorry." He ran his hands through his hair.
"I'm just—there's a lot riding on this. The Gideon Hotel deal is worth hundreds of millions. It’s our cash cow for the fiscal year.
It keeps the lights on, you know? If we lose that lawsuit, if the city wins.
.." He shook his head. "Every hotelier will think twice before working with us.
The inheritance needs to come through, because everything hinges on it more than ever.
The legal fights. The Queens properties. Everything."
"But you and Archer are doing well financially."
"We are. But we’re fighting on multiple fronts now. It adds up fast. That inheritance would give us the capital we need to outlast Cross." He turned to look at me. "Which is why we can't fuck up the committee meeting. We get one shot at this."
The pressure of it all bore down on me.
"What if I mess it up?" I asked quietly. "I could say one wrong thing that they latch onto and…"
"You won't mess it up." Nash knelt in front of me at the couch. "Clara, listen to me. You're so smart. You can handle anything. And you’re genuine. That's all that matters."
I gnawed on my lip, one last worry surfacing. "And what if Preston's lawyers somehow find out about our contract?" I couldn’t even say the words out loud, but the fear was banging around inside me. If they find out about the contract, they’ll have all the proof they need to take Mia.
"They won't. Only four people know about it—you, me, Archer, and my lawyer. The only people who can hurt us are us. So we don't tell anyone. We get through the committee meeting. We fight the custody case. And we move forward. Together."
I nodded, even though fear still clawed at my throat.
He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Let's focus on what we can control. We’re setting up the committee meeting and an appointment with Heather. And in the meantime, we document every single way Preston has failed Mia for the past three years."
"Yes." I drew a deep breath, trying to shake off the anxiety that just wouldn’t leave. That deep pit in my gut that knew more than my brain did. “I love a good plan.”
But as we sat there, surrounded by legal papers and half-empty glasses, I couldn't shake the feeling that everything was unraveling faster than we could hold it together.