Chapter 1
“The baby is your son.”
My hand stopped on the chair.
For one second, every sound in the ballroom disappeared.
Then it all returned at once.
Breathing.
Fabric shifting.
Someone placing a glass down too carefully.
Celestine’s heels moving half a step backward.
I looked at Amabel.
Not Celestine.
Not the guests.
Her.
“How old?”
“Six weeks.”
Six weeks.
I counted backward automatically.
And remembered a winter night seven months before Celestine and I became engaged.
A storm.
A cancelled train.
Amabel bringing documents to the country house because her sister refused to travel in bad weather.
Wine.
Conversation.
Grief neither of us had intended to share.
One night.
No promises.
Afterward, she avoided me.
I assumed embarrassment.
Then Celestine and I became serious.
Amabel said nothing.
I lowered my voice.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Before he was born.”
My jaw tightened.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She looked toward her sister.
That answered too much.
Celestine snapped:
“She was going to destroy everything.”
I turned slowly.
“Where is he?”
No answer.
“Celestine.”
“He’s safe.”
Wrong word.
Safe with whom?
Safe where?
Safe from what?
Amabel gripped the wet edge of her apron.
“She took him three days ago.”
My body went still.
“How?”
“She told me he was sick. That she knew a doctor who could help.”
Celestine laughed once.
“He was crying constantly.”
“He was six weeks old.”
I stepped closer.
“Where is my son?”
Her smile returned.
Thin.
Defiant.
“You mean her son.”
I watched Amabel flinch.
Then Celestine added:
“You don’t even know if she’s telling the truth.”
Interesting.
Not denial.
Deflection.
I looked at her.
“You already knew.”
Silence.
The engagement party had just ended.
May you like
Not because Amabel gave me a son.
Because Celestine had taken him and still believed she had the right to decide whether I would ever know.
