We left the penthouse at exactly 11:59 PM.
Seth carried my single suitcase down the private elevator, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it would shatter. We were kicked out of our own home. The 52nd floor of Vega Tower, the place where we fell in love, where he knelt on the marble floor and cried over our baby, was now sealed by court order.
"Where are we going?" I asked, my hand resting protectively over my stomach as we stepped out into the cold Manhattan night.
"Not to a hotel," Seth said, opening the door of a plain, unmarked black sedan. "Mr. Laurent's men are watching the luxury hotels. We are going to the one place he would never think to look. We are going back to your roots, wife."
An hour later, we were in Queens.
Seth didn't take me to a fancy safehouse. He took me to
