"I Was Seven Months Pregnant When My Husband Came Home and Found His Sister Inspecting My Arm

Two weeks later, on a freezing night in early December, the nursery on the second floor was finished.

It sat directly across from our master bedroom—a broad, square room with two long windows overlooking the northern pasture.

Rowan had spent three days painting the walls himself, refusing to let the contractors do it. He had chosen a soft, warm sage green that caught the morning light, paired with cream-colored trim and hand-carved oak furniture brought up from a local craftsman in Coulter Ridge.

In the center of the room stood the crib—a heavy, solid piece of white ash with simple, clean lines and no ornamental brass.

I stood in the doorway at ten o'clock at night, wrapped in a long, grey wool robe, watching Rowan assemble the small wooden mobile that hung above the mattress. He was sitting on the rug in his socks and a gray t-shirt, his long legs folded under him, carefully tightening a brass screw with a small screwdriver.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he said without looking up, his voice warm with amusement.

“He’s kicking,” I said, leaning against the doorframe and resting my hand against my side. “He doesn't like the noise of the screwdriver.”

Rowan set the tool down instantly, wiping his hands on his jeans as he stood up and crossed the room to where I was standing. He dropped to his knees on the carpet in front of me, leaning his head forward until his ear rested directly against my belly.

We stayed like that for two minutes in the quiet nursery, the only sound the faint hum of the heating vent and the slow, heavy rise and fall of my breathing.

Suddenly, a sharp, hard thump pressed against his cheek—a kick so strong it made Rowan jump back two inches with a soft laugh.

“He’s definitely an Armand,” Rowan said, looking up at me with shining eyes, his hands resting gently on either side of my waist. “Stubborn, impatient, and heavy-footed.”

“He’s an Associate Auditor,” I corrected him, smiling down into his face. “He’s checking your work on that mobile.”

Rowan laughed—a deep, booming sound that filled the nursery and echoed down the silent hallway. He stood up, pulling me gently against his chest, holding me so close I could feel the fast, steady rhythm of his heart beating against my collarbone.

“David Vance called while you were in the bath,” Rowan whispered into my hair.

“And?”

“Celeste accepted the plea bargain forty minutes ago,” he said softly. “Five years suspended, three years active probation, complete forfeiture of her non-voting trust distribution until the eighty-six thousand dollars is repaid to the foundation, and a permanent ten-year restraining order covering you, me, and our children.”

I closed my eyes, letting the last tiny knot of tension in my shoulders dissolve into the warmth of his shirt.

“No trial?”

“No trial,” Rowan said. “Her lawyer told her that if she went in front of an Atlanta jury with your medical charts and Lena’s testimony, she’d be doing eight years in a state facility. She signed the papers at eight p.m.”

He pulled back slightly, framing my face with his hands, his gray eyes clear and steady under the soft nursery light.

“It’s really over, Abby,” he said. “The house is ours. The trust is clear. There are no more secrets under the blotter.”