22. Papercuts

Legal meetings are a lot like papercuts.

You don’t notice the sting until you’re already bleeding.

I don’t say a word the entire time—just type, nod, and pretend not to notice how Miranda’s hands clench tighter every time her lawyer says “visitation” or “best interests.”

Is this really the best they can do? I seethe. Are they giving up already?

I can’t imagine why. So what if Miranda’s a single mother? She was one before she married Stephen, and it’s not like Dick tried to upend their agreement then.

At least—I don’t think he did.

“The only options,” Miranda cuts in, her whisper sharp as a blade, “are to maintain the current arrangement—or to get me full custody with no visitation from Richard.”

She doesn’t even mention Mommy Bri.

She stands. The lawyer gapes like a fish out of water.

“Do better, or I’ll find a firm that can.”

She strides out of the room without another glance. I’m barely a step behind her.

“Visitation,” Miranda spits, not breaking stride. “Completely unacceptable.”

I nod emphatically, shuddering. She doesn’t see.

“The man can barely tell them apart,” she snarls, “and yet a judge is supposed to grant him full custody? Because he married that toddler with a trust fund?”

I rush forward and pull the glass door open, holding it as she storms through, straight into the waiting car.

Once we’re both inside, she says only,

“The office.”

The drive is silent. Tense. I fight the urge to roll down the window—to let in some cold air, to temper the heat radiating off her like a furnace.

If that’s how all the meetings have gone, no wonder she’s a hurricane when she comes back to the office.

I’m suddenly grateful I don’t have time to date. The idea of men makes my stomach churn.

This afternoon is going to be hell.

Duck and cover, I text Emily.

I’m right about the afternoon.

Just like after the parent-teacher conference a month ago, Miranda is a whirlwind of fury. Only this time, she doesn’t linger in the office with that unsettling silence. She leaves exactly as scheduled—seven p.m. on the dot.

Everyone practically crumbles to the floor in relief as soon as the elevator doors close.

Thank god the girls are home, I think, now carrying The Book and Miranda’s dry cleaning up the steps of the townhouse.

I unlock the door and step quietly inside.

I know the drill: put everything away, don’t linger, get out. I’m especially careful tonight—not wanting to undo whatever magic the twins have worked on their mother’s mood.

I’m closing the closet door, about to set The Book on the usual table with the flowers, when a voice stops me in my tracks.

“Andrea.”

I glance down the hall. My hands tremble slightly as I pick The Book back up.

Don’t be ridiculous, I scold myself, straightening up. She’s called you to the den before.

Yes—she’s called me to the den.And then I was on a transatlantic flight to Paris while Emily cried into her pudding in a hospital bed.

I don’t think anything good can come from the den.

I’m not sure what I expect to see when I turn the corner, but it isn’t this:

Miranda, curled comfortably in an armchair, dressed down in a soft cashmere sweater and black slacks, one leg tucked beneath her, a novel open in her lap. Perfectly at ease.

A far cry from the woman who terrorized an army of professionals all afternoon.

For some reason, that thought has me fighting back a smile.

Miranda holds out her hand for The Book, and I oblige. I turn to leave, feeling lucky to get out of this unscathed—and maybe a little disappointed by the anticlimactic ending.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

I pause and glance back. Miranda is flipping through The Book.

“Of course,” I say, already pivoting. “I’ll grab you a cup—”

“I already have one.”

She gestures vaguely toward the end table beside her chair, still not looking up. Sure enough, a white ceramic mug rests neatly on a coaster.

It takes a full second to register.

She wants me to get a cup of coffee.

For myself.

She wants me to stay.

I’m too dazed to respond, so I just… roll with it.

The walk to the kitchen is a small adventure—I make a couple of wrong turns and have to double back.

Sooner than I’m ready, I’m seated across from her, a coffee table between us.

I take a tentative sip, bracing for the shoe to drop.

The coffee is, of course, incredible.

Miranda pauses her perusal of The Book and lifts her gaze to mine.

I don’t notice what happens next until the rip startles me so badly I nearly spill the coffee in my lap.

She’s torn a page out of The Book.

The Book.

The one Emily told me never to touch.

The one we bind with such painstaking precision every single night.

The Holy Book.

And she’s just… ripped a page out like it’s nothing.

She extends the page toward me.

I take it, reverently, awe swelling in my chest. The power this woman embodies is stunning.

There’s already a red pen sitting on the table.

I pick it up.

And get to work.

We work in silence.

The kind that feels like something solid. Something shared.

And somehow, hours pass.