Margaret’s eyes widened as she processed the gravity behind the voice on the other end of the line. The Chief Justice, my father, was not a man to be trifled with.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” he said, his voice unyielding and firm, “I would appreciate if you could return the phone to my daughter.”
Margaret’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. The confidence she usually exuded seemed to dissolve as she handed the phone back to me without a word. I took it, feeling the weight of both her shock and my father’s support.
“Claire,” my father continued, “I want you to sit down. I’m sending someone over to take you to the hospital for a check-up. I’m also coming myself.”
The relief that washed over me was overwhelming. “Thank you, Dad,” I whispered, tears welling up in my eyes.
I turned to go back into the dining room, cradling my stomach as I moved. The atmosphere had shifted dramatically. Jonathan appeared distinctly uncomfortable, glancing between Thomas and me as if he were witnessing the aftermath of an unexpected storm.
Thomas stood up, smoothing his suit jacket, his face now a mask of anxious concern. “Claire, let’s not make this more difficult than it needs to be,” he said, trying for a soothing tone that only made my skin crawl.
“You’ve made it difficult enough,” I replied, my voice surprisingly steady. “I’ll be waiting for the car outside.”
Margaret moved toward me, starting to speak, but for the first time, there was a hesitation in her step. The power dynamic had shifted, and she was no longer the imperious matriarch she’d been moments before.
“Claire, we didn’t know,” she started, softer now, her eyes darting to Jonathan, who was still staring at his untouched plate.
