Chapter 3 - The Secret Inheritance
By dawn, Willa’s fever had broken. The lumbar puncture came back negative for meningitis—it was a severe viral infection, but she was stable, breathing easily in her crib, clutching a tiny stuffed rabbit.
Elena sat in the vinyl armchair beside the bed, her head bowed in exhaustion.
The door clicked open, and Nathaniel walked back in. He had discarded his overcoat, rolling up his white shirt sleeves to his elbows. In his hands, he carried two cups of black coffee from the hospital cafeteria—a small concession to human frailty that startled Elena.
He set one cup on the bedside table without a word and sat down in the chair opposite her.
“She has my mother’s chin,” Nathaniel said softly, staring through the clear plastic rails of the crib at the sleeping baby.
Elena kept her eyes on her coffee cup. “She has my temper.”
“God help us both,” Nathaniel murmured. He took a slow sip of his coffee before turning his piercing gaze back to Elena. “You think I would have taken her from you.”
“I knew you would have tried,” Elena corrected him, looking up. “You don't know how to share control, Nathaniel. When we were married, every decision—from where we vacationed to how we spent our weekends—was run through your mental ledger. If you had known I was carrying your child while we were divorcing, your lawyers would have had me investigated, monitored, and legally dismantled.”
Nathaniel didn't deny it. He stared down at his coffee cup, his jaw clenching.
“Maybe I would have,” he admitted quietly, shocking her. “Back then. Before the silence got too loud in that empty glass tower.”
He set his cup down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“But that isn't the only reason you ran, Elena. Don't lie to me. I spent the last three hours on the phone with Marcus Vance and my private security detail. I know you didn't just hide Willa from me. You’ve been hiding from someone else, too.”
Elena’s breath caught in her throat. The color drained from her face.
May you like
“What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Victor Sterling,” Nathaniel said, pronouncing the name like a curse word. “Your former business partner at Carter Meridian before you launched your own independent urban design firm. Do you want to tell me why he tried to access your bank accounts three weeks ago using a forged power of attorney?”
