Chapter 9 - The DNA Dilemma
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The plan was set, but Sloane threw a curveball that nobody saw coming.
On Monday morning, my phone buzzed with an urgent text from Molly, Evan’s sister.
You need to come to the house. Now. It’s an emergency.
I left the office immediately, driving through the slushy Boston streets to the Whitcomb estate. When I arrived, the atmosphere in the sitting room was heavier than it had been on Christmas Eve.
Arthur stood by the fireplace, his face carved from stone. Ruth was sobbing quietly into a handkerchief. And Evan was pacing the floor, looking a mix of terrified and triumphant.
“What’s going on?” I asked, dropping my coat on a chair.
Evan stopped pacing and looked at me, his eyes gleaming with a sick sense of victory.
“Sloane is pregnant, Claire.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
For six years, Evan and I had tried to start a family. Three rounds of IVF. Two miscarriages. Countless nights crying in the dark while he told me we just had to be patient.
And now, his ten-month mistress was carrying the child I had bled for.
I fought to keep my expression completely blank. I would not let them see me break.
“Congratulations,” I said, my voice eerily calm.
“It changes everything,” Evan insisted, turning to his father. “Dad, you can’t cut me out of the company now. I’m giving you a grandchild. The first Whitcomb heir.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed. He looked at me, waiting to see how I would react.
I walked over to the coffee table, picked up a crystal glass, and poured myself a small measure of bourbon. I didn't drink it. I just held it to ground my shaking hands.
“That’s wonderful news, Evan,” I said, turning back to him. “How far along is she?”
“Ten weeks,” Evan said proudly.
I did the math in my head. Ten weeks ago was early October.
“Fascinating,” I replied. “Because ten weeks ago, Sloane was in Paris. And you were in Chicago for the commercial real estate summit. I know, because I packed your bags and managed your itinerary.”
The room went dead silent.
Ruth stopped crying. Arthur’s head snapped up.
May you like
Evan’s confident smile faltered. “What are you implying, Claire?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m stating a logistical fact.” I set the glass down with a sharp clink. “If she’s pregnant, Evan, you might want to ask Julian Thorne who the father is.”
