Chapter 1 - The Weight of Cedar
The silence that followed Ethan’s reprimand did not feel like peace. It felt like a trap being reset.
Vivian set her porcelain cup down with a sharp, deliberate click against the saucer, her eyes never losing their mild, practiced warmth. “I only want her to be comfortable, Ethan. God knows thirty-nine weeks is heavy enough without imagining threats where none exist.”
She stood up, smoothing the front of her tailored wool skirt, and walked past us toward the French doors leading to the rear gardens. As she brushed against my shoulder, the faint scent of gardenia and expensive dust drifted up, thick and cloying.
“Take her upstairs, darling,” Vivian said without turning around. “Dr. Sterling is coming by at four to check on her blood pressure anyway. We wouldn’t want her overstimulated.”
Ethan’s hand came down on my lower back, warm and familiar, steering me toward the wide staircase. “Let’s go up,” he murmured low against my hair.
“I didn’t ask for Dr. Sterling,” I whispered back as we climbed the sweeping oak stairs, each tread echoing under our feet. “Why is your mother scheduling doctors behind my back?”
“She didn't schedule him. I did. Just... as a precaution.” Ethan’s jaw tightened, a small muscle ticking beneath his skin. “Mom just happened to coordinate the time with him because he’s an old friend of the family.”
I stopped on the landing, gripping the polished banister until my knuckles turned white. “Ethan, my blood pressure was fine yesterday at my actual OB. Why are we having private concierge doctors come to the house like I’m a Victorian invalid?”
“Because it’s easier than sitting in traffic for two hours.” He unlocked the door to our suite, his expression a mix of exhaustion and appeasement. “Just let her win this one, Caroline. We’re out of here in three days anyway. Once the baby comes, we go back to our place, and none of this matters.”
That was his answer for everything. Let her win. It doesn’t matter.
Dr. Sterling arrived promptly at four. He was an elderly man with kind eyes and a low, reassuring voice that had delivered half the prominent babies in the county, including Ethan. He checked my vitals, muttered something noncommittal about late-stage water retention, and packed up his silver-latched leather bag.
“Everything looks stable enough,” Dr. Sterling said, snapping his case shut. “Though I will say, Ethan, your mother called me this morning quite concerned about the nursery preparations in the west wing.”
I froze, sitting on the edge of the velvet armchair. “The west wing? Our room is here, on the east side.”
Dr. Sterling paused, looking between Ethan and me with a sudden flicker of confusion. “Oh. Well, Vivian mentioned you were moving the baby into the ancestral nursery down the hall from her private study. She said it was all arranged weeks ago.”
The room seemed to shrink.
I looked at Ethan. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. He was suddenly intensely interested in a loose thread on his shirt cuff.
“Ethan,” I said, my voice barely a breath. “What is Dr. Sterling talking about?”
When Ethan finally looked up, his face was pale. “It was just an idea, Caroline. Mom thought... she thought it made sense for the first few months so she could help with night feedings.”
Dr. Sterling cleared his throat awkwardly, picking up his coat. “I’ll leave you two to discuss it. I’ll check in on Tuesday.”
As the front door clicked shut downstairs, the quiet of the house felt suffocating.
“You agreed to move the nursery,” I said, standing up. The sudden movement made the room spin, a sharp wave of nausea hitting my throat. “You talked to your mother about moving our newborn child into her wing without even telling me?”
“It’s not her wing, it’s just a bigger room,” Ethan said, his voice rising defensively as he stepped toward me. “And I didn't agree to anything, we just discussed options. Mom has staff, Caroline! She has a night nurse lined up who can—"
“I don’t want her staff! I don’t want her night nurse!” My hands shook as I pressed them against my swollen belly, the baby kicking hard in response to the adrenaline spiking through my veins. “This was supposed to be our home, our baby. What else have you and your mother planned behind my back?”
Ethan reached out to grab my shoulders, his expression turning frantic. “Stop it, you’re working yourself into a panic—look at your face, you’re white as a sheet—”
“Don’t touch me,” I whispered, stepping back until the edge of the heavy oak desk pressed into my spine.
Before Ethan could answer, a sharp, metallic clatter echoed from the hallway outside our door.
I turned my head toward the heavy mahogany door. The hallway was completely empty, but a single sheet of cream-colored stationery lay flat against the Persian runner, slipped neatly under our door.
Ethan crossed the room in two strides, picked up the paper, and unfolded it.
May you like
As his eyes scanned the single line of handwriting, the color drained entirely from his face, and the paper began to tremble in his hand.
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