Page 133 of Sweet Distraction

“Child Protective Services contacted me to assist with a traumatized orphan while they located and verified who the father was. I agreed to help, and then when the father was confirmed to be Mr. Caldwell, he asked that I stay on and help him with Poppy’s care.”

“And that care included what?”

“Everything from daily hygiene, nutrition, and foundational education to facilitating therapy appointments, enrichment activities, and snuggles. You name it.”

“And you are on-site, correct?”

“Meaning do I live at the Caldwell residence? Yes. My room is right next to Poppy’s for convenience and safety.”

“I see,” Sandra says as my heart continues to race. I know the questions that will be coming and yet answering them in Sandra’s comfortable office is far different from this cold courtroom. “And are you aware if Mr. Caldwell knew of Poppy’s existence prior to her arrival?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

“And how would you describe his adjustment to fatherhood and to Poppy?”

I inhale sharply and look just over the heads of the gallery. “I think he’s adjusted well. Understandably, he was shocked initially, as I assume anyone would when thrown into that position as a new parent. He struggled at first. But he’s made effort to learn how to communicate with Poppy, he’s adjusted things in his house to be safe for a toddler, and when he was on tour with Poppy, he ensured her ears were protected from loud music if she was backstage, and attempted to provide as normal a routine as much as possible. He is patient and funny and . . .” My throat tightens, and my voice breaks. “He’s become her most favorite person and vice versa.”

Sandra nods. “Thank you. No further questions.”

Then the lawyer for the Whitmores stands. Where Sandra came across as welcoming and non-confrontational, this man intimidates me with his slick hair and smug smirk.

“Ms. Adams. Hi.” His smile holds no warmth. “Let’s revisit your words. Struggled at first. Interesting phrase. Would you define, oh, I don’t know, excessive drinking, not coming home until the early hours of the morning multiple times the first few weeks after Poppy arrived, and choosing to be at the studio rather than home as struggling? Was it really struggling or more like absentee fathering while his nanny did all the work?”

My heart races. My eyes dart around the room.

“That was before Poppy.”

“Actually, it was in the weeks after Poppy arrived if the gate logs to his community and the metadata on the paparazzi photos taken are correct.”

“Like I said, there was an adjustment period. It was a short amount of time, yes. But—”

“But you’ll say anything because he pays you too, correct?”

“What?”

The lawyer moves around the well and ticks things off on his fingers as he goes. “Paid nanny services. Room and board. Lavish accommodations. VIP travel access. And as reported publicly . . . certain personal benefits?”

I freeze. The movement in the courtroom stills.

“Objection, Your Honor. Neither Ms. Adams, her compensation package, nor her behavior and actions are evidence of Mr. Caldwell’s ability to keep custody of his daughter. Please have the comment about personal benefits struck from the records.” She pauses and glances toward the Whitmore’s attorney. “If Mr. Caldwell is out of the house, it doesn’t matter seeing as his employed nanny is at home caring for the child.”

“Sustained. The purpose of this hearing is to discuss Mr. Caldwell’s custody of his own child. Is there a question about his ability that you wish to ask Ms. Adams?”

“Yes, Your Honor. You say your employer struggled with his new role. Can you explain what you mean by struggle?”

Heat flushes through my body. I don’t want to make this any worse. “I—uh—I think that is a subjective opinion and my opinions aren’t exactly qualified by any means—”

“Your opinions are jaded, are they not? It’s hard to remain unbiased when the father of the child you’re supposed to protect is also your lover.”

The word cracks like a whip in the air. The gallery murmurs. Someone shifts. A throat clears.

“I care about Poppy. That’s why—”

“Just like you cared at your last charge where you snuggled up to the father in exchange for admission and a scholarship into your undergraduate program.”

“What?” I bark out as the blood drains from my face. “My employer was an alumnus. That’s it. Nothing was traded for anything.”

“An alumnus that secured you a scholarship to pay for your education. What did you have to do in return for that help?”