Her father had disliked him immediately.
“He doesn’t love you,” Richard had warned.
“He loves the version of himself he sees through your eyes.”
Claire had called him controlling. Then she married Ethan without a single member of her family attending.
For years, she told herself that sacrifice proved her love was real. Now she was lying in a hospital bed while Ethan vacationed with another woman.
“Dad,” she whispered.
“I was wrong.”
“We can discuss that later.”
A chair moved on his end of the line.
“Tell me what you need.”
“I need help.”
“You have it.”
“I need someone I can trust.”
“You still have that, too.”
She closed her eyes. For the first time since labor began, she felt safe enough to breathe.
Richard sent her older brother, Andrew. He arrived less than forty minutes later in a charcoal suit, his expression controlled until he stepped into the room and saw her.
“Clary.”
No one had called her that in years. Andrew crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her carefully.
For several seconds, neither of them spoke. Then he looked toward the bassinet.
“Is that my nephew?”
Claire nodded.
“His name is Oliver.”
Andrew bent down and studied the baby’s face.
“Where is Ethan?”
Claire handed him her phone. The photographs from St. Lucia were still open.
