Chapter 61 The shadow at the table
The drive home from the clinic felt like the first time I had truly breathed in years. The hum of the engine was no longer a mechanical snarl of anxiety; it was a rhythmic lullaby. On the passenger seat, the small thermal printout of the ultrasound lay face up, the tiny, flickering bean-shaped shadow a silent promise that the future wasn't just a dream I was chasing—it was a life I was already sustaining.
Ten weeks and four days. The numbers danced in my head like a joyous melody. It was Victor’s. The man who had found me in the wreckage of my own life had left a piece of his light behind before flying across the world to fight for his own.
When I pulled into the driveway, the familiar sight of my mother’s flower pots and the slightly chipped paint of the front door felt like a warm embrace. I practically sprinted inside, the screen door slapping shut behind me.
"Mom? Maya?" I called out, my voice breathless and bright.
My mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She took one look at my face—the flush in my cheeks, the way the tears were already brimming in my eyes—and her own expression softened into a profound, relieved understanding.
"Elena?" she whispered.
I didn't say a word. I simply reached into my bag and pulled out the sonogram. My hand shook as I handed it to her. She held it up to the light of the living room window, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose.
"Ten weeks and four days, Mom," I choked out, a sob of relief finally breaking through. "The doctor was certain. It’s not... it’s not the accident. It’s him. It’s Victor."
My mother let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders sagging as if a mountain had been lifted off them. She pulled me into a hug that smelled of cinnamon and home, rocking me back and forth. "Thank God," she murmured into my hair. "Thank the heavens, my angel. A life born of love, not of sorrow. Victor’s child. A Blackwood with your heart."
"I have to tell him, Mom," I said, pulling back to wipe my face. "The second he’s out of surgery and the doctors say he can hear me, I’m going to tell him he has a reason to stand up. He’s going to be a father."
"He will be a wonderful father," she agreed, her eyes twinkling through her own tears. "He has the strength to protect and the soul to guide. Now, sit. You need to eat. No more nausea excuses—you’re eating for a future designer now."
For the next hour, the house felt like a sanctuary. Maya came home shortly after, and we huddled in the kitchen, passing the sonogram around like a sacred relic. We laughed, we cried, and for a brief window of time, the looming threat of the Jenkins family and the high-risk surgery in Turkey felt worlds away.
But the world has a way of intruding on the light.
I was sitting on the kitchen stool, nursing a cup of ginger tea, when my phone vibrated on the granite counter. The sound was sharp, discordant against the hum of our laughter.
I picked it up, expecting a message from Vane with an update on the flight's arrival in Istanbul. Instead, my heart did a cold, sickening somersault.
From: Unknown Number
The message was brief, clinical, and devoid of any greeting.
Meet me at 'The Silver Oak' tomorrow at 2:00 PM. We have matters to discuss that involve the future of my grandson. Do not be late, Elena. You know what is at stake.
The tea in my hand suddenly felt like lead. The room, which had been so warm and filled with light only moments ago, seemed to chill. I stared at the screen, the words 'my grandson' searing into my vision like a brand.
"Elena? What is it?" Maya asked, her smile fading as she saw the color drain from my face.
I turned the phone around so she could see. Maya read the message, her jaw tightening until a muscle in her cheek pulsed. "That woman," she hissed. "She actually thinks... after everything she heard in this kitchen, she’s still trying to claim a piece of you."
"She thinks it's Liam’s," I whispered, my voice trembling. "She heard me talking to you, Maya. She heard the uncertainty before I had the scan. She doesn't know about the ten weeks. She thinks she has a legal right to step back into my life."
"You aren't going, are you?" my mother asked, her voice sharp with protective instinct. "You don't owe that family a single breath of your time, Elena. Let them deal with their own ghosts."
I looked at the sonogram lying on the table, then back at the phone. I thought about Liam waking up, and his mother hovering over his bed like a vulture, feeding him lies about a legacy that wasn't his. I thought about Victor, lying in a sterile room in Turkey, unaware that a storm was brewing back home.
"I have to go," I said, my voice gaining a sudden, hard edge. "If I don't go, she’ll keep coming. She’ll show up at the daycare. She’ll send lawyers to the Blackwood mansion. She’ll try to tie my child to them"
"Elena, you're pregnant," Maya argued. "The stress—"
"The stress will be worse if I’m looking over my shoulder every day," I countered. I stood up, my posture straighter than it had been all day. "I have the medical records. I have the proof. I am going to walk into that restaurant, I am going to look her in the eye, and I am going to end this. Once and for all."
"She’s a dangerous woman, El," my mother warned. "She doesn't want a grandson. She wants control. She wants to redeem her son’s reputation by tying him to a 'success story' like you."
"Let her try," I said.
I walked to the window, watching the sun dip below the horizon. Tomorrow at two. The Silver Oak—a place of white tablecloths and hushed voices, the kind of place where the Jenkins family felt they could buy and sell the truth.
I touched my stomach, a silent promise forming in my heart. No one is taking you away. Not from me, and not from your father.
I picked up my phone and typed a single-word reply.
I’ll be there.
I hit send and turned off the screen. The inventory of days was gone. The countdown to the surgery was still ticking, but now, there was a second clock in the room. A countdown to a confrontation that would decide if the Crimson Moon was truly behind me, or if the shadows were just getting started.
As I climbed into bed that night, the sonogram tucked under my pillow, I didn't pray for peace. I prayed for the strength of the woman I saw in the mirror at the showcase—the one who wore red and refused to blink.
The battle for Victor's life was happening in Turkey. But the battle for our future was happening tomorrow, at a table for two.