The dining room was a cavern of mahogany and gold. The chandelier overhead cast a fractured light on the crystal glasses.
Florence sat at the end of the table. Garnett sat at the head. To his left sat Denese, the queen mother presiding over her court.
Florence was in the Siberia of the dinner table.
"The risotto is simply divine," Denese said, smiling at Garnett. She then turned her gaze to Florence, her smile vanishing. "Florence, you're barely eating. You need to keep your strength up. For the baby."
"I'm pacing myself," Florence said, cutting a piece of asparagus with surgical precision.
"You look pale," Blossom said, scrolling on her phone under the table. "Though that dress doesn't help. You look like you're going to a funeral."
"Maybe I am," Florence murmured.
Garnett stood up, tapping his spoon against his wine glass. The sharp ting-ting-ting silenced the room.
"I have an announcement," Garnett said. He looked handsome, confident. The perfect patriarch.
He walked down the length of the table. He stopped behind Florence's chair. He placed his hands on her shoulders. His grip was firm, possessive.
Florence flinched internally, but she kept her body rigid.
"Florence is pregnant," Garnett announced. "We finally have an heir."
Denese clapped her hands, a hollow, polite sound. "Finally. The trust can stop worrying about the succession line."
Denese raised her glass, her eyes locking onto Florence's. They were cold, predatory. "Congratulations, Florence. You must be so... relieved. You've finally done your job."
Job. Incubator.
Florence picked up her water glass. She didn't drink. She just held it, feeling the condensation cool her palm.
She turned in her chair, dislodging Garnett's hands. She looked up at him.
"It is a miracle, isn't it, Garnett?" she said. Her voice carried across the room. "Considering everything."
Garnett's smile tightens. "Yes. A miracle."
"Come here, child," a raspy voice called out from the other end of the table.
Grandame Hattie sat in her wheelchair, a small, shrunken figure wrapped in shawls. But her eyes were sharp as diamonds.
Florence stood up and walked to her. She knelt beside the wheelchair.
Hattie took Florence's hand. Her skin was like papyrus, dry and thin. "Is it true? A baby?"
"Yes, Grandma," Florence said softly.
Hattie's eyes filled with tears. "A Livingston. My heart is full."
Florence felt a stab of guilt. A Livingston. That was all that mattered to them. The name. The blood.
If Hattie knew the blood was Sharp, not Livingston, would she still hold Florence's hand?
"Mother," Denese called out. "Since Florence is in a delicate condition, I think she should move back to the Estate. We can monitor her better here."
Florence stiffened. Monitor. That meant surveillance.
"I think that's a wonderful idea," Garnett said quickly. "The city apartment is too isolated. Here, she'll have staff. Dr. Vance is nearby."
Florence looked at Garnett. She saw the trap closing. They wanted her under their roof, where they could control her diet, her movements, her mind.
But if she refused, she looked suspicious. If she refused, she lost access to Hattie.
She looked at Denese, then at Blossom, then at Garnett.
She smiled. It was the smile of a wolf baring its teeth.
"I would love to," Florence said. "It's so important for the baby to be around... family."
