Chapter 4 - Midnight Confessions
The guest bedroom on the third floor smelled of lavender detergent and unused space.
Clare had brought up a thick flannel nightgown, a pair of wool socks, and a steaming mug of peppermint tea with honey. Rebecca sat on the edge of the floral-print duvet, holding the mug between her hands, letting the rising steam warm her hollow, pale face.
The house below was dead silent. Richard had retreated to his study with a fresh glass of bourbon, locking the door behind him. Daniel was still pacing downstairs in the kitchen, too cowardly to come upstairs and face the music.
“You shouldn't have been nice to me,” Rebecca said quietly, staring into the dark amber liquid of the tea. “If I were you, I’d have thrown me out into the snow with my taped-up bag.”
“Maybe I considered it for about ten seconds,” Clare said, pulling a wooden chair up opposite the bed and sitting down, resting her hands over her protruding belly. “Then I remembered what it feels like to be completely alone in a crisis while the men in this family pretend everything is fine.”
Rebecca looked up, her dark eyes softening just a fraction. “He cheated on you, didn't he? That’s what you thought all those months he was sneaking around.”
A bitter smile touched Clare’s lips. “Worse. I thought he was having a torrid affair with a glamorous woman who lived in a penthouse. I spent weeks crying into my pillow, wondering what was wrong with my body, why he wouldn't touch me, why he couldn't look me in the eye. Turns out he was just acting as a corporate cleaner for his father’s sins.”
“He’s a coward,” Rebecca said flatly. “They both are. Richard built an entire empire on making problems disappear with a checkbook. He thought if he threw enough money at my mother back then, she’d evaporate. When she died of pneumonia three years after the settlement ran out, he didn't even send a floral arrangement.”
Clare leaned forward, her professional instincts—honed from years as a corporate mediator before she took a maternity leave—taking over. “Why now, Rebecca? Why show up tonight of all nights?”
Rebecca looked down at her hands, her fingers tracing the rim of the ceramic mug. “Because my doctor gave me the lab results last Tuesday. My creatinine levels are through the roof. My kidneys are shutting down, and the transplant list at the state hospital is a four-year wait. I don't have four years.”
“And you want Richard to pay for a private transplant?” Clare asked carefully.
“I don't want his money,” Rebecca said, her voice rising with a flash of fierce pride. “I want him to look me in the eye and acknowledge that I exist. I want him to sign an affidavit admitting paternity so I can qualify for an emergency compassionate-use voucher at the regional medical center—something his legal team blocked me from doing without a confirmed birth record.”
Clare went very still. A birth record.
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“He never put his name on the certificate?”
“Never. My mother used her maiden name. When she died, I had no legal proof I was his daughter. The settlement was structured as a ‘discretionary goodwill gesture’ to avoid scandal, not child support.” Rebecca set the mug down on the nightstand, her shoulders slumping under a crushing weight. “I’m dying, Clare. And the only man who can sign the paper to save my life is sitting downstairs drinking himself into a stupor.”
