“Please come on,” Taylor said gently.
“She stopped crying.
But she’s still sad.”
Something behind Corbin’s careful face gave way.
He let go of nothing else — not his fiancée’s protest, not the senator’s low muttering about reputations and influence — and simply let the child lead him down the hall.
Adrienne followed, feeling the heat of thirty stares on her back, certain she would be jobless and homeless by morning, unable to leave her daughter alone in the center of the storm.
When they reached the study, Marguerite was standing by the desk, hands clasped to hide their shaking.
“Mom,” Corbin said, and six months of guilt lived in that one syllable.
She didn’t rush to him.
She didn’t weep.
She only held out the yellow envelope.
“Read this,” she said, “before you judge me again.”
Chapter 11 — How Long
Corbin opened the folder, and Adrienne watched a man’s whole face change as he read.