Chapter 4
Grant stopped breathing.
His knees didn't buckle, but his hand shot out to steady himself against the edge of the antique mantelpiece. His knuckles turned stark white.
"Two?" he croaked.
"Twins," Dr. Parker said, her voice rich with satisfaction and awe. "Healthy, strong, and clearly unhappy that their mother has been skipping her fluids and stressing herself half to death." She wiped the gel from my belly and pulled my sweater down, turning her sternest glare toward Grant. "She needs an IV line for hydration, iron supplements, and strict bed rest for the next forty-eight hours. No stress. No arguments. And whatever the hell is in that folder over there, keep it away from her."
"I will," Grant said. His voice was cracked, completely hollowed out.
Dr. Parker set up a saline drip, anchored an IV cannula into the back of my hand, and administered an anti-nausea medication. Through the entire process, Grant never left my side. He dragged my father’s heavy leather armchair directly next to the sofa and sat down, his hands clasped between his knees, staring at me as if I were a ghost made of spun glass.
When Dr. Parker packed her bag and made her way toward the door, she paused, looking back at Grant. "Take care of her, son. Or next time, I'm calling a private ambulance to the city and barring you from the room."
"Understood," Grant said softly.
The front door clicked shut.
The house grew terribly quiet. The only sounds left were the slow drip of the IV and the wind weeping against the glass.
I turned my head away from him, staring at the darkened spines of my father's old books. My throat ached with unshed tears. "You can leave now, Grant. Take the papers. You know where Vermont is. When they're born, I won't ask for a dime of Hale Meridian money. You can have your clean slate."
A rustle of movement made me look back.
Grant was on his feet.
He didn't touch his coat. Instead, he walked slowly toward the desk. He picked up the black leather folder containing the thirty-seven pages of legal precision—the document crafted to dissolve our marriage as if it had been an error in a ledger.
He held it in his hands for three seconds.
Then, with a sudden, vicious flex of his forearms, he ripped the folder completely in half.
The thick parchment cracked like gunshots in the quiet room.