Epilogue Two
two months later…
DAVID
My father never calls unless something is wrong.
In forty-two years, I can count on one hand the number of times Brent Kingsley has phoned me for anything resembling casual conversation.
Birthday calls are sent as a voice note.
Holiday greetings come through his secretary.
When he wants to discuss something, he summons you to his office like opposing counsel.
So when his name flashes across my screen in the middle of our first official Kingsley & Kingsley partnership meeting, my stomach drops.
“I need to take this,” I tell Caleb, who’s mid-sentence explaining our fee structure to a nervous startup founder. I show him my phone screen with Dad’s contact card lighting up.
Caleb’s eyebrows rise. He knows this can’t be good. “Go.”
I step into the hallway of our new office—still smelling of fresh paint and possibility—and answer.
“David.” My father’s voice is clipped, professional. “We have a situation.”
“What kind of situation?”
“Kelsie’s filed a petition to have her parental rights reinstated.”
The words don’t make sense at first. They bounce around my skull like a foreign language, refusing to form coherent meaning.
“That’s not possible. She signed a voluntary termination. You drew up the paperwork yourself.”
“I’m aware of what I drew up.” There’s an edge to his voice—not quite defensive, but close. “She’s claiming the termination was obtained under duress. That she was suffering from untreated postpartum depression and wasn’t mentally competent to make that decision.”
“That’s bullshit. She waited six months after leaving to sign the papers. It was her idea—she knew exactly what she was doing.”
“I know that. You know that. But her attorneys are arguing that the six months she spent away from Michaela exacerbated her mental health crisis, and that I—” He pauses, and I hear something I’ve never heard in my father’s voice before.
Uncertainty. “That I took advantage of her compromised state to pressure her into signing.”
“This is bullshit.” I rake a hand through my hair before bracing against the wall to try to stop myself from shaking. “We did everything right. We were clear about what it meant. We both advised her to get a lawyer of her own. But she was in such a hurry to cut ties that she didn’t want it.”
I lower myself onto the new office bench, knees weak with a memory I’ll never outrun—Kelsie in the boardroom at my father’s law firm, flanked by no one, chin up and jaw set, looking more like a client than the woman I’d once married.
She didn’t even look at Michaela. She looked past her, like she was already erasing her daughter from a whiteboard and moving to the next problem.
My father’s silence stretches until it’s more threat than comfort.
“She’s also requesting temporary visitation,” he finally says, and my chest goes tight.
“No. She can’t. You know what she did. The utter…negligence.” It hurts to even say the word, let alone let the memories in.
My father coughs softly, a tell that he’s stressed. “The judge could grant interim visitation while the case is under review. Especially if Kelsie argues that denying her access contravenes Michaela’s best interests.”
I want to scream. Instead, I stare at the wall with its too-bright artwork—a cheerful print meant to inspire new business.
But all I can think of is the absolute lack of care she showed our daughter.
The state I found Michaela on the day Kelsie left.
A toddler, alone in an apartment for hours.
I swore to myself I’d never let her near Michaela again.
I’d pay whatever it cost, fight as hard as I had to, become the parent she never was.
“We’ll fight it,” I say flatly. “There’s precedent. Especially with the evidence we have on record.”
“I’ve already initiated a response with the court,” my father says, voice sliding back to its familiar steely cadence.
“You need to understand that Kelsie has resources behind her on this, David. She remarried recently, and her new husband has money—a lot of it, the kind that buys very expensive attorneys. They’re arguing she’s rehabilitated, that she’s completed parenting classes and therapy, and that Michaela deserves to know her mother. ”
“Michaela doesn’t even remember her mother. She was barely walking when Kelsie took off.”
“The court won’t see it that way. They’ll see a woman who made a mistake and spent years getting healthy so she could come back.
” His voice hardens. “David, I need to be clear. This petition has a real chance of succeeding. Not full custody—I don’t think any judge would go that far—but visitation. That’s a real possibility.”
I hear myself laugh, sharp, ugly. “Why? To play house for an hour a week? To post a photo online? She didn’t want Michaela when she was hers to keep. Why now?”
“That question won’t help us.” His tone is dull as a blunted razor.
“She is not coming for parental rights because she wants to change diapers. This is about legacy, reputation—maybe about hurting you. Maybe about proving she can.” His voice drops.
“Her new husband’s name is Canning. Thomas Canning, the venture capitalist out of San Francisco. ”
That turns my stomach. I know the Canfield Group, know Canning’s reputation for buying what he wants regardless of market price, and my father would never bring up the new husband’s name unless it mattered.
It’s not about Kelsie. It’s about the leverage behind her this time—the optics involved with being married to a billionaire with a PR team.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and force my breathing even. “What do I need to do?”
“Document everything. Every school event, every bedtime routine, every piece of evidence that Michaela is thriving in your care.” A pause. “It would help if you had character witnesses. Teachers, coaches—people who can speak to your involvement in her life. And David?”
“Yeah?”
“I know we haven’t always...” He trails off, and I can picture him in his office, jaw tight, the way it gets when emotions threaten to breach his professional armor. “I won’t let her take your daughter. Whatever it costs.”
It’s the closest thing to affection my father has offered in years.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“I’ll send the filing to your office. Read it tonight. We’ll strategize tomorrow.” He hangs up without saying goodbye, and I’m left standing in the hallway, wondering how everything went sideways so fast.
I take a breath. Then another. I need to get back in there. We have two more potential clients coming in this afternoon, and I can’t fall apart in the hallway of the firm I just opened.
Compartmentalize. That’s what Kingsleys do.
I’m reaching for the conference room door when my phone vibrates again.
Michaela’s School.
My blood turns to ice.
“Mr. Kingsley.” The receptionist’s voice is strained. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but we have a situation. Ms. Kelsie Hartley came to the school with some legal paperwork. She tried to sign Michaela out for an early pickup.”
The hallway tilts. “She was just there? Today?”
“About twenty minutes ago. We didn’t release Michaela to her, of course—she’s not on any authorized list, and we need to officially verify any changes with all parties. But… there was a confrontation in the hallway. Michaela saw her before we could intervene.”
“Is she OK?”
“She’s... upset. Very upset. She’s in Principal Harrison’s office now. We’ve tried reaching your nanny, but she’s not answering, and Michaela keeps asking for you.”
Twenty minutes ago. Which means Kelsie filed the petition and then went straight to the school. A coordinated attack. Establish the legal claim, then show up in person to demonstrate her ‘commitment to reconnecting.’ Her lawyers probably coached her on exactly how to play it.
Fuck.
Caleb steps into the hallway, his expression tight. “David. I need you in the conference room. Now.”
I glance past him. It’s a shitshow inside the conference room. Our new associate is trying to placate the founder, who’s on the verge of tears over something in our terms. Crap.
“Just give me two more minutes,” I tell Caleb, who gives a curt nod and slips back inside. I press my cell back to my ear. “Can you put me through to Principal Harrison?”
“Of course.”
There’s a pause, then Nora’s voice comes on the line. Calm. Steady. The same voice that talked me through the first Kelsie incident months ago, when this nightmare started.
“David. Michaela’s OK. Shaken, but OK. She’s coloring in my office right now.”
“Thank you, Nora,” I say. The relief hits so hard I almost drop the phone. “Is she… did she see Kelsie? Did they talk?”
“She saw her,” Nora confirms, voice so gentle I want to punch a wall.
“But only for a few seconds. Kelsie tried to approach, though we intervened before there was an altercation. Michaela got scared. She started to cry. We brought her here. She asked for you, and the moment I said I’d call, she calmed down. ”
“God.” I sit back hard against the wall, eyes squeezing shut. “Is she asking for me now?”
“Honestly?” Nora says. “She’s asking to go home.
She doesn’t want to be at school anymore today.
Says she’s tired and just wants to see her dad.
” I glance at the conference room, the knot of people inside, the faint echoes of someone raising their voice.
“I’m across the city. With traffic, it’ll be at least an hour.
I’m so sorry. If you need, I can call the car—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Nora interrupts.
“Honestly, she’s decompressing. I just don’t think she wants to be around other kids today.
” I check my phone calendar. Three back-to-back meetings, all client-facing, all scheduled weeks out.
The kind of clients who expect you to be both omnipresent and omniscient.
But none of them matter more than Michaela, and certainly not right now.