They dragged me across the polished Carrara marble of the foyer, the stone slick and unforgiving beneath my bare feet. My three-day-old daughter, Luna, was screaming against my chest, a high-pitched wail that tore through the cavernous hall of the Kingston estate.
“Get her out,” Helena Kingston commanded, her voice devoid of even a flicker of humanity. “She’s staining the floor.”
I tried to dig my heels in, but the security guards were too strong. My body, still stitched together and raw from an emergency C-section just seventy-two hours prior, screamed in protest. A jagged line of fire seared across my abdomen as they hauled me toward the massive oak doors.
