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“What’s wrong?” I’m already up and out the office door.

“Nothing.”

“Is it Lorraine?” I bark at Brant, “Car,” as I head for the elevator.

“Mom’s fine. We’re not fragile, Harlan. We can take care of ourselves.”

I jab the elevator button and demand, “Tell me why you’re going to the doctor.”

I know she thinks I’m overly controlling.

And I know I keep making it worse.

Ever since she smashed that cake in my kitchen and moved her mixer out, she keeps telling me that she needs space. Time. Room to breathe.

The very next day, she informed me that she’d be baking out of her own kitchen while she “decides what to do.” It’s been driving me crazy.

So I insisted on buying her a new oven.

When she started making excuses about being “too busy” to see me, I insisted she let me track her phone, so I’d know where she was in case anything happened.

When her car proved no longer worth repairing, but she wouldn’t let me buy her a new one, I assigned a driver to her. And a bodyguard. Lincoln now drives her everywhere, and reports everything she does to me. So I know she and the baby are safe.

Whether she’s at home, or with a client, or sitting by the waterfront thinking, I know where she is. And who she’s with. I even know, to some extent, how she’s feeling.

Because I have Lincoln take pictures of her, and send me updates. Hourly.

Or every fifteen minutes, if I’m stressing out.

I barely get to see her in person. Her choice, not mine.

But that’s not going to make me stop thinking about her.

Stopwantingher.

And I can’t help worrying obsessively about her whereabouts and her safety.

The truth is, she and the baby are beyond my control. And I just need her to be safe.

Can’t she understand that?

“It’s just an appointment, a checkup about the baby. I’m going with Mom. You don’t have to leave work early.”

I lower my voice. “You told Lorraine?”

“Of course I did. I wasn’t going to keep it from her forever. I need support, Harlan.”

“You have support.

“Emotional support,” she clarifies. “Money is not an acceptable stand-in for time and attention.”

“You have my time and attention.”

You seriously have no idea.

The elevator door opens. “Shit. I’m about to lose reception, but I’ll call you back on my way there?—”

“You don’t have to come. Are you at work?”