Trailing closely behind him, radiating the toxic energy of a seasoned socialite, was his mother, Beatrice Thorne. Beatrice chaired three separate country-club charity boards and possessed a smile sharp enough to slice through glass.

“Well, well,” Julian announced, his voice a booming, theatrical baritone as he spotted me by the bed. “Look who it is. The cavalry has arrived.”

Beatrice’s predatory eyes raked over my plain, unassuming gray cashmere cardigan. Her lips curled in a mockery of endearment. “How incredibly touching,” she purred, dripping with condescension.

“Grandma came all the way downtown just to help with the buttons.”

Chloe’s entire body went rigid against the examination table. The joyful glow of the ultrasound vanished, replaced by the frozen, shallow breathing of a hostage.

Julian glided toward the head of the bed, leaning down to press a performative kiss to Chloe’s temple. I watched closely. Chloe recoiled—a micro-movement, barely a millimeter, but the physical revulsion was undeniable.