My attorney was direct. “Alexander, this is a woman you were about to give legal standing in your children’s lives. You caught it in time. Now you make sure she never has access to them again, and you protect Marisol, who this footage completely exonerates.”
I did both.
Chloe came home that evening still believing I was in Toronto, still believing her performance was working, still believing she’d marry into my life in three months and spend it quietly making my daughters small.
I was sitting in the living room when she walked in. In the exact spot where she’d terrorized my children that morning.
“Alexander? You’re home? I thought—”
“I never left, Chloe,” I said. “I’ve been in the security room all day. Watching.”
I watched her face do the thing Marisol’s had not done — flinch, calculate, scramble.
“Whatever you think you saw—”
