“Get out and take your bastards with you!”
Vivian Harrington shrieked, her spit hitting my cheek as the heavy oak front door of the estate flew open behind me. The biting wind of the Chicago winter slammed into my chest, but it was nothing compared to the violent shove against my ribs.
My husband, Graham Harrington, pushed me down the top step. I stumbled, clutching my ten-day-old twins against my chest, my boots slipping on the snow-dusted marble.
“You heard my mother, Evelyn,” Graham sneered, his breath a foul cloud of top-shelf whiskey and cowardice. He tossed a battered suitcase into the slush at my feet. It burst open, spilling a single, cheap silk blouse—a prop from the life I had pretended to live. “You thought you could trap me with a couple of crying brats? A nobody designer from the slums trying to lock down the Harrington fortune? You
