Chapter 1 - THE CHAIR THAT WAS NEVER HIS|
My husband brought his pregnant mistress to my dead mother's family ceremony, sat her in my mother's chair, and told me, "She's carrying my heir. You need to accept your place."
Then I saw what she was wearing.
My mother's diamond snowflake brooch.
The same brooch that had disappeared from my dressing room eleven days earlier.
Sloane Pierce sat beneath my mother's portrait in an ivory satin gown, smiling as if she had already inherited everything. Grant stood beside her, his hand resting possessively on the carved walnut chair.
Everyone at Hawthorne House was watching me.
Grant wanted me to scream. He wanted tears, accusations, anything that would prove his favorite story about me—that grief had made me unstable.
What he didn't know was that I'd spent months uncovering financial authorizations bearing my forged signature, a hidden company, suspicious transfers, and records connected to Sloane's apartment.
And he had made one catastrophic mistake.
He thought my mother's chair was just furniture.
That chair was tied to the Hawthorne Registry, a formal record of who held a designated family position under our governing documents. Every Founders' Night, the chair remained empty until the registry acknowledgment was completed.
Grant had never bothered to read the rules.
He leaned toward me, gripping my elbow.
"Don't embarrass yourself, Evelyn. Sloane belongs here now."
I looked at his hand, then at the stolen brooch glittering on Sloane's chest.
"Let go of me."
He smiled as though I were a difficult child.
"Behave. She's carrying my heir."
Across the room, Aunt Marjorie stood behind the mahogany table. At seventy-six, the retired federal judge still had a way of making powerful men suddenly remember their manners.
She lifted the ceremonial mallet.
CRACK.
Every conversation stopped.
"The designated family seat must remain vacant until the registry acknowledgment is complete."
Grant laughed.
"You're making a pregnant woman stand over an antique chair?"
Aunt Marjorie didn't smile.
"The chair is reserved under the governing documents."
Sloane's smile faltered.
I stepped forward.
"Grant, did you tell her that chair belonged to you?"
His eyes narrowed.
"Evelyn, not another word."
But I wasn't looking at him anymore.
I was looking at Sloane's brooch.
"Where did you get that?"
She touched the silver snowflake.
"Grant gave it to me. He said it was a family gift."
My chest tightened.
"It was. From my mother. To me."
Sloane looked at Grant.
For the first time that evening, he had no immediate answer.
Then Aunt Marjorie placed her fingers on the brass latch of the Hawthorne Registry.
Grant stepped toward the table.
"What exactly is in that book?"
I looked straight at him.
"The answer you should have checked before bringing her here."
May you like
Aunt Marjorie released the latch. The heavy leather cover began to rise, exposing the first page beneath it.
And Grant suddenly reached for my arm again.
