Chapter 3 - The Pretender's Table
"You look wonderful as always, Eleanor," Michael said smoothly, stepping back and flashing that magnetic, practiced smile that had fooled Chicago's high society for a decade. "Retired life agrees with you. Lake Forest keeping you busy?"
"It has its charms, Michael," I replied, keeping my voice pitched at a comfortable, warm maternal register. "Though lately, my entire focus has been on my future granddaughter."
Michael’s smile broadened, but I noticed the subtle, imperceptible tightening around his eyes—the microscopic sign of control-freak tension that only a trained observer would spot.
"She’s going to be extraordinary," Michael said, gesturing down the hall toward Emily’s suite. "I’ve personally reviewed the duty roster for next Thursday’s scheduled C-section. I’ve assigned Dr. Aris—our top chief anesthesiologist—and the senior surgical team. Emily is in the safest hands in the country."
The safest hands.
The words hung in the air like a sick joke.
"That's very comforting to hear, Michael," I said softly, walking alongside him toward the room. "Emily seems a bit anxious today. Her blood pressure was slightly elevated when we arrived."
Michael’s stride didn't break, but his voice cooled by half a degree. "Is she? Well, third-trimester hormones can be volatile, Eleanor. She's been sleeping poorly at home lately. I've told her repeatedly that she needs to rest and stop overthinking things, but you know how delicate her temperament can be."
Delicate her temperament.
He was already laying the groundwork. He was subtly framing my daughter as unstable, hormonal, and fragile—so that if she ever dared to raise her voice about the violence inflicted upon her body, anyone in his orbit would immediately dismiss it as the hysterical delusion of an overwhelmed expectant mother.
It was classic, textbook psychological conditioning.
"Of course," I nodded, keeping my hands folded neatly over my leather purse. "Pregnancy takes a heavy toll on a young woman."
Michael pushed open the door to Emily’s private suite.
Emily was sitting on the edge of the examination table, her green gown pulled neatly over her knees, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The moment Michael entered the room, her entire posture went rigid. Her chin dipped downward, her shoulders pulled inward, and her eyes darted to the floor.
It was the posture of a beaten dog waiting for its master's next command.
Michael didn't notice—or perhaps he enjoyed it. He walked right up to her, leaning down to kiss her forehead with exaggerated tenderness.
"How is my beautiful girl feeling?" he asked softly, his hand resting on the side of her neck.
His thumb was resting precisely over her carotid artery. To an outsider, it looked like a tender, romantic caress. To me, knowing what I now knew, it was a silent, terrifying display of power—a physical reminder that her life was literally resting under his finger.
Emily flinched slightly, then caught herself, forcing a faint, trembling smile. "I'm... I'm okay, Michael."
"Her back was bothering her earlier," I said casually from the doorway.
The air in the room instantly dropped ten degrees.
Michael’s hand on Emily’s neck froze. He slowly turned his head to look at me, his dark eyes narrowing into razor-sharp slits.
"Her back?" Michael asked, his voice entirely devoid of its previous warmth.
Emily stopped breathing. She looked at me through the mirror on the wall, her eyes wide with absolute, blind panic, begging me silently not to say another word.
"Yes," I said smoothly, stepping over to the leather chair and taking a seat. "She was complaining of terrible lumbar spasms when she was changing into her gown. I told her that carrying a nine-month pregnancy puts immense pressure on the spine and ribs. Isn't that right, Dr. Carter?"
Michael stared at me for three long seconds, analyzing my face, looking for any sign of suspicion, accusation, or hidden meaning.
I gave him nothing. My face was a mask of bland, polite, aging maternal concern.
Slowly, the tension left Michael’s shoulders. He chuckled softly, turning back to Emily and running his hand down her dark hair. "Ah, yes. Lumbar lordosis. Quite common in the final weeks. We can prescribe a light topical compress, sweetie. You really shouldn't worry yourself so much."
He turned toward the digital ultrasound machine against the wall and powered it up. The dual monitors flickered to life, casting a cold, blue light across the room.
"Alright," Michael said, reaching for the bottle of clear ultrasound gel. "Let's take a look at our little princess."
Emily laid back onto the examination table, her hands clutching the paper lining so hard it crinkled loudly under her weight. Michael squirted the cold blue gel onto her round, bare stomach and pressed the plastic transducer against her skin.
Instantly, the rhythmic, thunderous sound of a baby's heartbeat echoed through the quiet room.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
It was fast, strong, and perfectly clear—145 beats per minute. A vibrant, miraculous life thriving inside a dark, dangerous situation.
"Look at that," Michael murmured, staring at the black-and-white screen with professional pride. "Perfect umbilical flow. Strong cardiac output. She's measuring at seven pounds, eight ounces."
I stood up from my chair and walked over to the side of the bed. I didn't look at the monitor. I looked at my daughter’s face.
Tears were sliding silently down Emily’s temples, soaking into the white paper pillow cover beneath her head. She was staring up at the ceiling, listening to her daughter's heartbeat, utterly terrified that the man holding the transducer was going to destroy them both in seven days.
I reached out and took Emily’s icy hand in mine, squeezing her fingers with firm, absolute strength.
May you like
I looked across the bed at Michael. He was leaning over the monitor, his face illuminated by the blue light, completely oblivious to the fact that his high-tech room, his hospital, and his life were already being dissected by people he couldn't see.
Enjoy the sound of that heartbeat, Michael, I thought, staring at his immaculate profile. Because by this time next week, you won't even have a medical license to hear it.
