Chapter One Hundred and Twenty Three

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty Three

Hermione

I step into my mother's office, wondering what she wants this time. She hasn’t required my attention for a while, not since the scandal of her illegitimate pregnancy began hovering in the air.
"You requested to see me," I say, stepping closer. She gestures for me to sit, and I comply.
She lowers her gaze to a manila folder sitting on the desk between us—a silent instruction for me to peruse its contents. I reach for it and pull out the thin, white sheet inside. It is a patient’s record, marked confidential. My stomach lurches as I read the details. This is another of Mom's VIP contacts with complex health issues. The memory of the last time I received a similar order makes my skin crawl.
I narrowly escaped punishment the last time I defied her orders to treat a VIP patient, nearly forfeiting my position and facing a painful demotion to a resident. I haven't fought this hard, forced to thrive ahead of my peers, just to lose it all now. I scaled the ladder toward success and paid the price for it. While my family’s influence may have amplified my medical journey, I have put in ten times the effort of my colleagues. I only hope I don’t have to reject this patient as well; Mom’s patience with me is already stretched thin.
To my relief, I find the surgery isn't a risk I can't afford to take. I tuck the sheet back into its folder and set it on my lap. "Okay. When will the patient be available for the surgery?"
"Are you certain you can handle this?" Mom inquires.
"I’m confident the surgical process will proceed without complications," I respond, knowing that is exactly what she wants to hear.
She clicks her tongue in approval and waves a hand in dismissal. I rise to my feet, preparing to leave.
"How are you and Aiden faring?" she asks, stalling my movement. I’m stunned she even bothers to ask. Ezra Watson Pierce is rarely concerned with the well-being of others.
"We’re fine," I reply, my tone clipped.
"Any future plans?" she inquires.
I furrow my brows. "Like what?"
"A baby. A happily ever after," she remarks, a derisive tilt to her nose.
"Do you require me to have a baby with him now? I thought I only had to marry him."
Mom studies me in silence for a long moment before nodding. "You are excused."
"What? You can't tell me you're looking forward to being a grandmother."
Mom scoffs but remains silent. I wait regardless, curious about what prompted the topic of a child. Is she emotional because of the pregnancy she terminated? Looking at the state of her belly, she clearly didn't keep it. I think of the pain its presence caused Dad—the heartbreak she dealt him through her infidelity.
"The audacity you have, Mom," I mutter. I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until she demands coldly, "What did you say?"
I own up to my blunder, squaring my shoulders to meet her eyes. I’m not looking for a fight, but the emotions swirling within me have loosened the leash on my tongue.
"A baby? A happily ever after? Didn't you say love is a mere fantasy for girls with no ambition? Didn't you advise me against impulsive decisions? Then why did you have a baby with another man? Why did you cheat on Dad?" I ask truthfully. "I know you never held him in high regard, but why are you still holding on to him? You broke his heart and forced the abrupt end of an innocent life. Whenever I think of you, I'm not exactly eager to become a mother."
I continue, the words pouring out. "Is it the weight of your unmet ambitions that you forced me to shoulder, or your lack of maternal concern? I grew up feeling like a stranger. For what it’s worth, Mom, if having a baby with Aiden is part of your plan, it won’t work. I’m not bringing a child into this world to be used as a tool for your machinations. And guess what? You’re missing out. You should have married for love. It’s the best motivation for an ambitious woman—having a supportive partner to fall back on when everything feels overwhelming. Whoever the father of that child is..." I breathe deeply. "If you love him, leave Dad and be with him."
Mom remains quiet for a moment. "Love is a corrupting influence. I didn't raise you to be sentimental."
"Too bad for you. I didn't take after you; I’m more like Dad."
Mom snorts under her breath. "You may leave if you intend to spout rubbish." She rises from her seat and heads back to her desk, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. I bite my tongue as I watch her, silently berating myself for speaking. I should have excused myself the moment she dismissed me, but her inquiry about a baby had raised my hackles.
I suspect she has an agenda. I'm certain she is reaping some reward from my marriage to Aiden. At the very least, I am grateful she was insightful enough to choose the better brother; she looked beyond the superficial and did not choose Lachlan. Initially, I felt being match-made with Aiden was a disaster, but Lachlan is ruin personified—a walking red flag, based on everything I’ve discovered about his true character through Aiden.
"If you're waiting for a reaction, you won't get one. Your sentiments are useless to me, Hermione," she states, her voice devoid of emotion. She settles into her seat, the chair rocking slowly as she watches me. "I only know what’s best for you. In due time, you will understand that everything I’ve done has been for your sake."
"Your decisions may work in my favor," I admit, "but can you stop hurting people to satisfy your agenda? Dad, me... you don't have to go so far that it taints how your loved ones perceive you. I just want you to act like a mother. Don't be so locked on the future that you fail to experience the present. You're ruining yourself, Mom. Dad's tolerance will reach its limit eventually."
"Love makes you vulnerable," Mom states flatly. "That is Jackson's hubris, never mine."
"Then who is the father of your baby?" The terminated one, I assume.
"That is none of your business. I am not having this conversation with you. Go back to work."
"You never have a conversation with me! That’s why I ended up this way. That’s why I never wanted to love or become a mother. I don't want to be like you, but you keep pushing me. You keep torturing me. I’m scared of you... I hate you. I’m ashamed of what you’ve done to Dad..." I clench my teeth, breathing hard.
Nothing I say reaches her. It feels as though I’m merely making a fool of myself. I roll my eyes heavenward, wondering how I spiraled from a professional doctor into an emotional wreck. Mom’s expression remains impassive, unmoved by my words—no guilt, no remorse.
I shake my head. "I give up on you." I turn to leave.
"Your emotions must not affect your performance," Mom calls to my back as a final warning while I walk out.
I charge toward my office, desperate for privacy. My face burns with embarrassment and a rollercoaster of emotions. Mulling over our exchange, I cringe inwardly. I had been holding these sentiments back for so long, my walls firmly raised, yet a single question sent my barricades crumbling.
I shove both hands through my hair after closing the door, shielding my face from watchful eyes. My back hits the door and my head thumps against it in defeat.
You messed up, Hermione. One more time. Big time.