"Get out of my house—both of you!"
"Mom—" Miles's small voice cut in, tight and serious.
"Now," the woman at the top of the stairs said. "You don't belong here."
Aubree didn't answer. She stepped forward with Miles pressed to her hip.
"You're trespassing," the woman said. "Eliseo will be mortified."
"He's not mortified by kids," Aubree said.
Someone in a navy suit moved toward them. A footman. A camera-ready assistant. An invisible line of the Lawson world closing.
"Step aside," the woman ordered. "This is private."
A boardroom voice, thin with rehearsed outrage. Aubree's mouth curled without thinking.
"Mama, go home," Miles whispered into her collar. He folded his small hand over hers.
The woman reached out. Her fingers aimed for Aubree's face.
Aubree blocked the slap with a single, compact motion. She caught the woman's wrist, twisted, and flipped it. The woman pitched forward, grabbed the banister to stop herself, and went silent.
Gasps filled the foyer. A chandelier tinkled as someone knocked a glass tray.
"You—" the woman started, then stopped. Her face went white in front of the staff and the portraits. She was the kind of woman who ordered people's lives and expected the room to comply.
"Hands stay where I can see them," Aubree said. Her voice held every tired night argument she'd ever won and the stubbornness that had kept her on her feet since Miles was born.
Miles gripped tighter
