Chapter 2 - The Doctor Who Was Never My Friend
I remembered the first time Sebastian introduced me to Dr. Evelyn Markham.
It was at a dinner party in our penthouse nearly a year earlier.
She wore a navy dress and spoke in the soft, measured voice of someone used to people trusting her. Sebastian called her “an old family friend” and told me she specialized in helping high-profile families manage stress.
At the time, I thought she was kind.
She asked whether pregnancy had made me anxious.
Whether I struggled with sleep.
Whether I worried about losing my identity after becoming a mother.
I had answered honestly.
I told her I sometimes woke in the night because Sebastian traveled so often.
I admitted that I felt lonely in the penthouse.
I said I worried he had stopped loving me.
She had smiled sympathetically.
Then she said, “Those feelings are very common. You should write them down.”
For months afterward, I had done exactly that.
I wrote private notes in my phone.
I tracked my sleep.
I recorded moments when I felt overwhelmed.
I thought I was protecting my mental health.
Now I realized I may have been building their case against me.
“Did she have access to my records?” I asked Griffin.
“Not legally, unless you signed a release.”
I searched my memory.
The obstetrician’s office.
The forms.
The documents Sebastian’s assistant sometimes brought home with sticky notes marking where I needed to sign.
My stomach dropped.
“There was a privacy authorization,” I said. “Sebastian said it was for our insurance provider.”
Griffin pulled a document from the folder.
“There was one.”
My signature sat at the bottom.
It was real.
I recognized the curved E, the rushed line beneath my name.
But the authorization listed Dr. Markham as a consulting mental-health provider with permission to receive “relevant maternal wellness information.”
I felt sick.
“She was never treating me.”
“No,” Griffin said. “She was evaluating you from the outside.”
The next document was worse.
It showed payments from Vale Holdings to Markham Behavioral Consulting.
Not small payments.
More than $300,000 over fourteen months.
The invoices described confidential executive family support services.
But Griffin had traced the payments to the same company Natalie used to reserve hotel suites and private cars.
Natalie was not just Sebastian’s mistress.
She was part of the operation.
A crisis consultant.
A woman paid to manage scandals, shape narratives, and protect powerful men when the truth threatened them.
And I was the scandal Sebastian wanted managed.
“What do I do?” I asked.
For the first time since I entered Griffin’s office, my voice broke.
“I am seven months pregnant. He knows where my doctor is. He knows my family. He knows every person I have ever trusted.”
Griffin did not offer false comfort.
“You stop reacting alone,” he said.
He pulled a business card from the file.
Marian Caldwell.
Former federal prosecutor. Family-law specialist. Expert in coercive-control cases.
“She does not work for Sebastian,” Griffin said. “She does not work for your father’s friends, your husband’s investors, or anyone who owes the Vale family anything.”
I stared at the card.
“Can she protect Audrey?”
Griffin looked directly at me.
“She can help you protect both of you.”
I picked up the card.
For months, Sebastian had made me feel like I was losing my mind.
Now I understood.
I had not been irrational.
I had been watched.
And I had not been weak.
May you like
I had been alone.
That was about to change.
