Linda stood there, in scrubs still stained with her daughter's sickness, and felt her marriage die right there on the porch.
She didn't cry. Didn't scream. Just looked Edward in the eye and said, "You'll never touch him again," she'd told Edward that night, her voice steady despite the terror racing through her veins. "You'll never even look at him again. If you want a divorce, fine. If you want me gone, fine. But if you ever—EVER—try to hurt that child, I will destroy you."
'And I meant every word. I would've killed him with my bare hands before letting him hurt Peter.'
Then came the offer. A neat little deal tied with blood money: two million dollars if she walked away, no noise, no fight.
Everyone told her to take it. Her family. Her friends. "Two million dollars, Linda! Are you out of your mind? For what? Some junkie's bastard who isn't even yours?"
But that was the thing.
