Chapter 4 - The Weight of Blood
The hospital room felt impossibly small, the walls seeming to close in around Ethan as Clara’s words settled over them like lead dust. He released his grip on the metal railing and stepped back, running a hand through his hair, dislodging the careful styling he had endured an hour earlier.
"We need to talk about what this means," Ethan said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "My wedding... Madeleine's family... My entire life is scheduled to be broadcast in the society columns in three hours. I have a company to run, a reputation to maintain."
Clara’s gentle demeanor evaporated instantly, replaced by a sharp, cutting resolve. She shifted the baby slightly, the infant letting out a soft, sleepy sigh.
"Do you honestly think I care about your society columns, Ethan?" Clara asked, her voice trembling with rising indignation. "Do you think I sat in this sterile room for nine months alone, hiding my belly, covering for your cowardice, just so you could panic about your social calendar when your flesh and blood is drawing its first breaths?"
"That's not what I meant," Ethan stammered, holding up a placating hand. "It's just... the timing is impossible. Why didn't you tell me sooner? Why wait until the exact morning of the ceremony?"
"Because you blocked my number six months ago when your engagement was announced," Clara said bitterly. "Because the only reason I have your direct line today is because I found it scribbled on an old notepad in my drawer, and I refused to let my son grow up as a ghost in your perfect little suburban fairy tale."
Ethan flinched. He remembered the day he changed his number, cutting off all ties with his past to appease Madeleine's fiercely protective father. The guilt was a heavy, suffocating weight in his chest. He looked at the baby again, really looked at him, feeling a strange, terrifying pull in his gut that he had spent years trying to suppress.
"I have to go back," Ethan muttered, looking toward the door. "If I go back now, I can still make it to the altar. We can figure out... financial support, whatever you need, Clara. Quietly. Through lawyers."
Clara stared at him in utter disbelief, her eyes wide. Slowly, she reached out her right hand from beneath the gray blanket, extending a folded piece of heavy cream-colored paper toward him.
May you like
"Before you talk about lawyers and hush money," Clara said coldly, "you might want to read the letter Madeleine’s father had hand-delivered to my hospital room ten minutes before you walked through that door."
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