PART 4
Ryan remained beside my bed, staring at my bruised legs as though he were trying to decipher a language he had never seen before.
“Claire,” he whispered. “Who did this?”
I slowly turned my head toward the closed door.
“Your family, Ryan.”
As if summoned by my words, the brass handle clicked.
The door opened.
Margaret swept into the room wearing a brilliant, artificial smile.
“Well, Ryan, darling?” she asked brightly. “Was her performance dramatic enough to convince you?”
Ryan slowly turned toward his mother.
And as another contraction tore through my body, I watched the first fatal crack appear in the Whitmore empire.
Margaret didn’t immediately understand the horror on her son’s face.
Arrogance can make people remarkably blind.
She crossed the hospital floor with the grace of a queen visiting people she considered beneath her.
Caleb followed.
His leather portfolio was already open.
A silver pen rested between his fingers.
Behind them came Dr. Lawson, the private obstetrician Margaret had personally insisted oversee my pregnancy.
His immaculate white coat was buttoned perfectly.
His face carried a carefully rehearsed expression of grave medical concern.
“Ryan, darling,” Margaret said sharply. “We need to act immediately. Claire’s mental condition is deteriorating. Labor appears to have triggered an acute psychotic episode.”
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I remained completely still.
One hand rested protectively across my swollen stomach.
