Chapter 4 - The Tipping Point
Forty-eight hours after Clara left, Vanessa moved into the Vance penthouse under the guise of "severe pregnancy complications."
"The doctor says my blood pressure is spiking," Vanessa announced as she sprawled across the velvet chaise lounge in the living room, a silk robe loosely draped over her frame. "Stress is lethal for the baby right now, Nathan. I need quiet. I need care. And honestly, it makes no sense for me to stay in my apartment when this place has four bedrooms."
Nathan, operating like an exhausted ghost on three hours of sleep, placed a mug of warm herbal tea on the side table. "Vanessa, this isn't right. Clara just moved her things out. Ethan is staying in the guest suite. We haven't finalized anything."
Vanessa’s expression instantly turned glacial. She pushed the tea aside, spilling a few drops onto the polished mahogany.
"Clara is gone, Nathan. Accept it. She gave up on you because she couldn't give you what a real family needs. But I am here. Our son is here." She grabbed his hand and pressed it firmly against her stomach. "Feel him. He needs his father under the same roof."
Nathan closed his eyes, his stomach churning with revulsion. Through the thick fabric of her robe, he felt the solid curve of her belly. It was firm, warm, and motionless. He pulled his hand back quickly, feeling like a traitor to his own soul. "I need to get to the office. The South Loop zoning meeting starts in an hour."
"Don't forget the revised trust documents," Vanessa called after him as he grabbed his coat. "My attorney sent them over this morning. Since we're establishing paternity, it’s only logical that the trust names me as the primary conservator of the child’s estate in case anything happens to you."
"The child isn't even born yet, Vanessa!" Nathan snapped, his patience finally fraying.
"And he might not be born healthy if I have to worry about our financial security while you mope over your ex-wife!" Vanessa barked back, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
Down the hallway, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, Ethan watched the exchange with a mug of black coffee in hand. He waited until Nathan slammed the front door shut, leaving the penthouse in a tense, simmering quiet.
Vanessa stood up from the chaise. She didn't look tired. She didn't look like a woman battling high blood pressure. She stretched her arms over her head, her spine arching smoothly.
"Still here, Ethan?" she asked, smoothing down her silk robe. "Don't you have surgeries to perform?"
"I took personal leave," Ethan said smoothly, taking a slow sip of coffee. "I wanted to be around to support my brother. And to monitor your condition, of course. Nathan mentioned you had a high-risk ultrasound yesterday at Northwestern. Who is your OB-GYN again? Dr. Morrison?"
Vanessa paused for a fraction of a second. "Yes. Dr. Morrison."
"Funny," Ethan said, stepping closer. "Elena Morrison is the Chief of Obstetrics at Northwestern. She was my attending physician during my trauma residency. I called her office this morning to ask about your prenatal dietary restrictions. Her administrative assistant told me she doesn't have an active patient named Vanessa Reed."
The air in the room suddenly turned sub-zero.
Vanessa didn't flinch. Instead, she let out an icy, mocking laugh. "I use a concierge practice associated with the university network under a private LLC for privacy, Ethan. I'm a publicist. I manage reputations for a living; I know how to keep medical records sealed. Are you seriously interrogating the mother of your future nephew?"
"I'm an anatomist, Vanessa," Ethan said, his voice dropping into a deadly, rhythmic calm. "I cut people open for a living. I know where the human liver sits. I know where the intestines displace when a twenty-two-week fetus expands the uterine cavity. When a pregnant woman stands up from a low chaise lounge, her abdominal muscles separate—it's called diastasis recti. She has to engage her glutes and roll to her side to avoid core strain."
Ethan took one deliberate step closer, towering over her.
"You just sat straight up. You engaged your rectus abdominis like a gymnast doing a pike crunch. You didn't groan. You didn't hold your lumbar spine. And that belly didn't shift by a single millimeter."
Vanessa’s jaw tightened until the tendons in her neck strained. "Get out of my face, Ethan. If you ever speak to me like that again, I will tell Nathan you assaulted me. Let's see who he believes: his jealous, paranoid brother, or the woman carrying his bloodline."
She turned and marched into the master bedroom, slamming the double doors behind her.
May you like
Ethan stood alone in the hallway, his jaw set like iron. "I don't need him to believe me," Ethan murmured to the empty room. "I just need the needle."
***
