There’s something I think you should know before you call the office.”
I stepped into the hall and closed the door behind me.
He lowered his voice.
“The instruction regarding Mrs.
Callahan wasn’t informal.
It was entered into the executive protection system.”
“By my assistant?”
“Yes.”
“Under whose authority?”
He hesitated.
“Yours, according to the file.”
My skin went cold.
“I never authorized it.”
“I understand that now.”
“What exactly did it say?”
“That Mrs.
Callahan was not to be admitted to your residence, office floor or private events, and that attempts to contact you were to be routed through your assistant.”
“And you went to her apartment because of that?”
“There had been multiple attempted visits.
We were told to make sure she understood the access restriction.”
I looked through the thin gap beside the doorframe.
Inside, Eleanor was kneeling beside Sophie’s couch, touching the back of her hand to the child’s forehead.
“Did she tell you she was pregnant?”
The contractor’s face changed.
“She did.”
The hallway seemed to tilt.
“And you reported it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“To whom?”
He didn’t need to answer.
I already knew.
I took out my phone.
For the first time that night, Eleanor tried to stop me.
She opened the door.
“Max.”
I turned.
“Don’t call her angry.”
“She knew you were pregnant.”
“I know.”
“She sent security to your home.”
“I know.”
“She stole almost three years of my daughter’s life from me.”
Eleanor stepped into the hall.
“And anger won’t give those years back.
Get the proof first.”
That sentence reminded me why I had fallen in love with her.
Even hurt, exhausted and furious, she could see the move after the next move.
I lowered the phone.
“You’re right.”
I looked at the contractor.
“Can the original directive still be retrieved?”
“It should be archived.”
“Can it be altered?”
“Not without leaving a record.”
“Then nobody calls the office yet.”
I made one call instead—to the head of our internal records and compliance team.
