Claudia spent the rest of the afternoon at her father's bedside. He was still unconscious, the rhythmic whoosh of the ventilator the only sound in the room. She sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair, her hand resting protectively over her abdomen, praying that the impact with the desk hadn't harmed the tiny life inside her.
At 6:00 PM, her phone rang. The screen displayed Unknown Number, but she knew who it was. Only one person called from a blocked line with such punctuality.
She answered. "Hello?"
"Dinner. Tonight. The Estate."
Granddame Sanford's voice was like cracking parchment-old, brittle, but commanding absolute authority.
"Granddame, I can't," Claudia said tiredly. "My father is-"
"I know where your father is. The car is downstairs. Be in it."
The line went dead.
Claudia looked out the hospital window. Sure enough, a sleek black Rolls Royce was idling at the curb, a shark in a sea of minnows.
She sighed, kissed her father's cold forehead, and went downstairs.
The driver, a man named Thomas who had worked for the Sanfords for thirty years, opened the door for her. The interior of the car smelled of rich leather and a heavy, musk-based air freshener.
As soon as the door closed, sealing her in, her stomach lurched. The scent was suffocating. She rolled the window down, gulping in the exhaust-filled city air just to keep from retching.
The drive to Long Island took an hour. They pulled through the iron gates of the Sanford Estate as the sun began to set over the ocean. The house was a monstrosity of stone and ivy, looming against the darkening sky like a fortress.
Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper, was waiting at the massive front doors. She was a severe woman with grey hair pulled back so tight it pulled her eyes into a perpetual squint.
"You're late," she sniffed. Her eyes dropped immediately to Claudia's midsection, lingering there for a fraction of a second too long.
Claudia's heart skipped a beat. Did she know? Mrs. Higgins saw everything. She counted the silverware, the linens, and probably the bathroom trash.
Claudia walked past her into the main hall. Granddame Sanford was seated in her high-backed velvet chair near the fireplace, a cane resting against her knee. She was eighty years old, draped in pearls, looking like a queen on a throne.
She didn't offer a greeting. She just pointed a gnarled finger at Claudia's face.
"You look terrible," she stated. "Pale. Gaunt. And Higgins tells me you've been vomiting in the mornings."
Claudia froze. "I... I have a stomach bug. The stress... with my father..."
"Higgins also mentioned she found a receipt from a pharmacy in your trash," Granddame continued, her eyes narrowing. "And she saw you coming out of the obstetrics wing at the hospital today."
Panic flared in Claudia's chest. She opened her mouth to lie, to deny it, but the front door slammed open behind her.
Ezequiel strode in.
He looked exhausted. His tie was undone, his hair slightly messy. He had clearly come straight from Alexa's bedside.
He stopped when he saw them. "What is this? An inquisition?"
"We were discussing the future of the family," Granddame said, her voice sharp. "Something you seem to have forgotten about."
Ezequiel walked to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink, ignoring his wife completely. "There is no future for this family, Grandmother. Not with her."
"Is that so?" Granddame turned her gaze back to Claudia. "Tell him, Claudia. Tell him why you're really sick."
Ezequiel turned slowly, glass in hand. He looked at Claudia, really looked at her, for the first time in weeks. His gaze traveled down to her stomach.
"You're not," he said. It was a statement of disbelief. He let out a short, cruel laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, Grandmother. We haven't slept together in months. And when we did..." He waved his hand dismissively. "We took precautions."
"Accidents happen," Granddame said softly. "Miracles happen."
"This isn't a miracle," Ezequiel sneered. "It's a lie. She's desperate. She'll say anything to stop the divorce."
He walked toward Claudia, stepping into her personal space. The smell of whiskey was on his breath.
"Well?" he challenged, his eyes cold. "Are you pregnant? Or is this just another one of your pathetic schemes to stay attached to my wallet?"
