I returned to the kitchen with my legs trembling, briefly remembering my childhood among judges, ambassadors, and legal discussions in libraries lined with walnut wood.
I was the daughter of William Thorne, although David had always believed I was an orphan favored by a scholarship and too grateful to demand respect.
I had never corrected that lie because I wanted them to love me for myself, not for the weight of a name capable of opening any door.
In front of the stove, the smell of rosemary and butter turned my stomach, and I had to place both hands on the kitchen island.
The pain was no longer simple fatigue; it felt like a red-hot iron twisting inside me, warning me that something was going terribly wrong.
I gasped David’s name, hoping that at least in the face of real danger he would remember I was carrying his son.
From the dining room came only more laughter, Sylvia’s voice correcting someone, and that contempt that always entered any room first.
I tried to walk toward the door, but Sylvia appeared before me, her face hardened by a fury that seemed to delight in my weakness.
She accused me of faking again to avoid work, of seeking attention, of wanting to ruin her perfect Christmas evening with another convenient crisis.
I begged her for a doctor, or at least a moment to sit down, but she heard defiance where she preferred to hear a plea.
