Chapter Twenty-Six
Gabriel
“You’re telling me they hired a private investigator to follow my wife and daughter to the park?” My voice was level. Controlled. The same tone I used when informing a patient that their surgery would be more complicated than anticipated.
But my hand was gripping the phone hard enough that the case creaked.
“Two investigators, actually,” Anthony Gallagher said on the other end of the line. “Rotating shifts. They’ve been on you since the day after our meeting.”
I was in the clinic’s conference room. Fitz, Nathan, Hayden, Quinton, and Julien had been reviewing surgical schedules when Anthony called. Now they were all watching me with varying degrees of concern.
“How long have you known?” I asked.
“I confirmed it this morning. My guy ran the plates on the vehicle that’s been parked outside your house for the past week.” Anthony’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Richard Castellano doesn’t mess around. He’s building a case.”
“By stalking my family.”
“By documenting your family’s daily activities, yes.” A pause. “It’s legal, Gabriel. Unethical as hell, but legal.”
My jaw clenched. “And what exactly are they documenting?”
“Everything. Where Cate takes Megan. Who she talks to. How long she’s at the park. Whether she’s on her phone instead of watching your daughter.” Another pause. “They got photos of her with Fitz at the playground yesterday.”
Fitz’s head snapped up. “What?”
“You were jogging,” Anthony continued. “Stopped to talk to Cate while Megan was on the swings. Sat close on a bench. Laughed together. To someone who doesn’t know the context, it could look... friendly. Very friendly.”
“Bloody hell,” Fitz muttered. “I was just—we were just talking. I was trying to calm her down. She was spiraling about the custody case.”
“I know that. You know that. But Richard Castellano is going to spin it however benefits his client.” Anthony’s tone sharpened.
“Which is why I need you all to be extremely careful about how you interact with Cate in public. No touching. No sitting too close. Nothing that could be misinterpreted as inappropriate.”
“This is insane,” Nathan said.
“This is family law,” Anthony corrected. “And Richard Castellano is very, very good at it.”
I stood, pacing to the window. Outside, the parking lot was full of cars belonging to patients who trusted me to fix their broken bones, their torn ligaments, their shattered joints.
I could fix those things.
I couldn’t fix this.
“How is Cate handling it?” Anthony asked.
“She’s not.” My words came out harder than intended. “She won’t leave the house.”
“What?”
“Since the park incident, she refuses to take Megan outside. Not to the playground. Not to the store. Not even to the backyard.” I pressed my palm against the window, feeling the cool glass. “She’s terrified of being watched. Of making a mistake that could cost us the case.”
“Gabriel.”
“My house looks like a craft store exploded in it,” I continued, my voice tight.
“There are baked goods on every surface. Megan’s glitter drawings are taped to the walls.
There’s a teepee made out of bedsheets and balloons in my dining room.
Yesterday I came home to find them building a fort out of couch cushions in the living room.
The day before that, Cate had turned the kitchen into a ‘science lab’ and they were making volcanoes out of baking soda and vinegar. ”
Fitz was trying not to laugh.
I shot him a look that could have performed surgery.
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” he said.
“It’s chaos. Complete and total chaos. Every single day it’s something new. This morning I found them having a ‘fancy tea party’ at seven AM. Megan was wearing a tiara. Cate had made scones. There were doilies on my coffee table. Doilies, Fitz.”
“Did you have a scone?” Nathan asked.
“That’s not the point.”
“But did you?”
“Yes, I had a scone. It was excellent. That’s also not the point.” I turned back to the window. “The point is that my wife is so anxious about being surveilled that she’s turned my home into a disaster zone, and I don’t know how to fix it.”
“Have you talked to her?” Julien asked quietly.
“Of course I’ve talked to her. She apologizes, promises to clean up, and then the next day there’s something new. Yesterday, it was finger painting. Do you know how hard it is to get tempera paint out of hardwood floors?”
“I’m guessing very hard,” Hayden said.
“Extremely hard.” I pinched the bridge of my nose.
“And the worst part is, I can’t even be angry about it.
Because I know why she’s doing it. She’s keeping Megan entertained indoors because she’s terrified of what will happen if they go outside.
She’s stress-baking at three AM because she can’t sleep.
She’s creating chaos because it’s the only thing she can control. ”
The room was quiet.
“You really care about her,” Nathan said finally.
“Of course I care about her. She’s my wife.”
“Your fake wife,” Fitz corrected gently.
“It doesn’t feel fake.” The admission came out before I could stop it. “Not anymore.”
Anthony cleared his throat on the other end of the line.
“Gabriel, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Richard Castellano is going to use everything he can against you. The surveillance. The photos. The fact that you and Cate got married so quickly. He’s going to paint you as a man who’s so desperate to keep custody that he’d marry his nanny in a sham marriage. ”
“It’s not a sham.”
“I know that. But you need to prove it. Which means your house needs to look stable. Organized. Like a real home, not a daycare center that’s been hit by a tornado.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you? Because if Child Services shows up for a surprise visit and finds glitter on every surface and a teepee in your dining room, it’s not going to look good.”
My blood went cold. “Child Services?”
“It’s standard in contested custody cases. They’ll want to do a home visit. Make sure the environment is suitable for a child.”
“When?”
“Could be anytime. They don’t usually give advance notice. That’s the point.”
“Anthony.”
“Which is why you need to get your house in order. Now. Today. Before they show up and see—”
His voice cut off.
Then: “Shit.”
“What?”
“I just got an email from the court. Child Services is scheduled for a home visit today.”
My heart stopped. “When?”
“One PM.”
I looked at my watch. It was noon.
“You have one hour,” Anthony said. “Get home. Clean up. Make it look like a normal, stable household. I’ll see if I can stall them.”
The line went dead.
I stood there, phone in hand, feeling the weight of what he’d just said settle over me like a lead blanket.
One hour.
One hour to transform my house from a craft-store-explosion-slash-bakery-slash-indoor-playground into something that looked like a suitable environment for raising a child.
One hour to make sure I didn’t lose everything.
“Gabriel?” Fitz was standing now, concern written across his face. “What’s wrong?”
“Child Services is coming to my house in one hour.”
The room erupted.
“What?”
“Today?”
“Right now?”
“How much of a disaster are we talking?” Nathan asked.
I thought about the kitchen, covered in cooling racks and baking sheets. The living room, with its glitter drawings and couch-cushion fort. The dining room, with its bedsheet teepee held up by chairs and what appeared to be an entire bag of balloons.
“Catastrophic,” I said.
“Then what are we waiting for?” Hayden was already grabbing his jacket. “Let’s go.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Gabriel.” He fixed me with a look. “You’re our friend. Your wife is terrified. Your daughter is caught in the middle of a custody battle. And you need help. So shut up and let us help you.”
Fitz was already heading for the door. “I’ll drive. Nathan, you’re with me. Hayden, Julien, you take Gabriel’s car.”
“What about the clinic?” I asked.
“Reschedule everything,” Hayden said. “This is more important.”
“But—”
“Gabriel.” Nathan’s hand landed on my shoulder. “We’ve got your back. All of us. Now let’s go save your family.”
The drive home took twelve minutes.
It felt like twelve hours.
Fitz drove like he was trying to qualify for NASCAR, weaving through traffic with the kind of precision that would have been impressive if I wasn’t currently having a minor cardiac event in the passenger seat.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “I always wondered what it would take for you to lose one’s shit.”
“I haven’t lost my shit.”
“You’re gripping the door handle hard enough to leave fingerprints in the metal.”
I forced myself to let go. “I’m fine.”
“You’re shit scared, mate.”
“What?”
“You’re shit scared, bricking it. You’re terrified that Child Services is going to show up, see the chaos, and decide Megan would be better off with Tonya.” He glanced at me. “And you’re petrified of losing Cate.”
“This isn’t about Cate.”
“Codswallop. This is entirely about Cate.” He took a turn fast enough that I had to brace myself against the door. “You’re in love with her.”
“I’m not.”
“You married her.”
“For the custody case.”
“You married her,” Fitz repeated, “because you couldn’t stand the thought of her leaving. Because somewhere between the skateboard incident and the dinner she made and the way she looks at Megan, you fell for her. Hard.”
I didn’t respond.
Because he was right.
I had fallen for her.
Somewhere between her anxiety spirals and her stress-baking and the way she turned my controlled, organized life into beautiful chaos, I’d fallen completely and irrevocably in love with Cate Brennan.
Cate Lyon.
My wife.
“So what are you going to do about it?” Fitz asked.
“Right now? I’m going to make sure my house doesn’t look like a disaster zone when Child Services arrives.”
“And after?”
“After, I’m going to win this custody case. I’m going to keep Megan. And I’m going to convince Cate that this marriage doesn’t have to be temporary.”