The next morning the pressure came to a head.

Dax gathered the family into the formal dining room and, without preamble, slid a thick “Joint Administration Agreement” across the table to my place, uncapped a gold pen, and set it on top of the pages.

“It’s a formality, Jennifer,” he said, with a smile that never reached his eyes.

“It just lets the family professionally manage Cody’s future.

It’s for the boy’s protection.” My fingers hovered over the pen, my heart slamming.

Before I could shape a refusal, a chair scraped.