I wore understated suits, drove a five-year-old Sedan, and avoided high-society galas.
Arthur wanted Clara married to the idiot son of a regional bank chairman to consolidate his debt.
Clara had defied him.
She packed her bags in the middle of the night, chose me, and severed ties with her bloodline.
For six years, Arthur and his sons had nursed that humiliation like a festering wound.
Tonight, knowing Clara was pregnant, knowing she was vulnerable, they had cornered her in her design studio after hours.
They had demanded she leave me, surrender her stock options in her father’s legacy firm, and return to the family fold.
When she said no, they used their fists.
I turned away from Clara’s bed, my hand briefly brushing her cold, still fingers. Wait for me, my love, I thought. Just wait.
I opened the ICU door and stepped into the long, sterile hallway.
All nine of them were standing near the waiting lounge at the far end of the corridor.
They weren’t hiding.
They weren’t fleeing.
