Chapter 7 - The Winter Siege
Two weeks passed.
Life at the small stone cottage in Garrison had established a quiet, rhythmic pattern.
The snow had arrived early in December, blanketing the surrounding pine forests in three inches of fresh, pristine white powder.
Every morning, Wyatt would sit at the small kitchen table, managing remote freelance cybersecurity contracts he had secured on his own merits, completely independent of the family firm. Delaney had applied for a junior architectural apprenticeship at a firm in Albany. Micah spent his afternoons chopping firewood for the hearth, while Phoebe studied for her mid-term exams by the fireplace.
And Eliza’s pregnancy progressed smoothly. The swelling in her ankles had reduced, her spirits were high, and the dark, suffocating dark clouds of the Westchester estate seemed like a distant nightmare.
Except for one thing.
Every morning at precisely 8:00 AM, a sleek black SUV would pull up to the edge of the snowy driveway—not at the front porch, but down by the mailbox at the road.
Damon Northcott would step out of the car.
He didn't wear his three-piece tailored suits or his cashmere overcoats. He wore simple heavy boots, dark jeans, and a plain canvas winter jacket.
He would clear the snow from the driveway with a shovel. He would stack fresh split logs against the side shed. He would leave two brown paper bags of fresh groceries from the local market on the porch steps, knock twice, and then walk back down to his car and sit inside for hours, watching the house.
He never tried to force his way inside. He never demanded to speak with Eliza. He simply stayed.
On the fifteenth day, as sleet began to mix with the falling snow, Micah stood by the living room window, holding a mug of coffee, watching his father shovel the front walkway for the third time that week.
"He's been sitting in that car for six hours," Micah muttered, shaking his head. "He looks like a ghost."
Delaney walked over, looking through the glass. "He lost eight pounds. Frank told me when he dropped off the mail yesterday that Dad hasn't been back to the Westchester house once. He's staying at a motel down on Route 9."
Phoebe looked up from her textbook. "Is he really going to just sit out there until the baby comes?"
Eliza stepped into the living room, wearing a warm knitted sweater, her belly now distinctly larger and rounder as she entered her eighth month.
She looked through the window at the tall man standing in the blowing snow, his shoulders hunched against the wind as he cleared the ice from their porch steps.
She walked to the front door, pulled it open, and stepped onto the porch.
The cold air hit her face, crisp and sharp.
Damon stopped shoveling instantly. He turned around, his face pale, his nose red from the bitter cold. He held the snow shovel in his gloved hands like a soldier standing at attention.
"Eliza," he said, his breath pluming in the freezing air. "I... I cleared the ice on the bottom step. It was slick this morning."
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Eliza looked at him—at the lines of exhaustion carved deep around his eyes, at the snow dusted across his dark hair, at the total absence of the arrogant, terrifying crime lord who had ruled Westchester.
"Come inside, Damon," Eliza said quietly. "Before you freeze to death on my porch."
