Chapter 74 The heir's mother
CHAPTER 74: The heir's mother
Vera
Beside me, Silas sat as rigid as a statue, his gaze fixed on the city outside the tinted windows of the Maybach while I still gazed in awe at the ultrasound report in my hands. The silence was broken by the sharp vibration of his phone. He answered after a quick glance at the screen, his voice dropping into a low, steady timbre.
“I’m aware of the time, Natalie,” he said.
Natalie.
I tried to ignore that strange feeling that was sprouting. I had no right to even feel any sort of way.
Silas listened for a long moment, rubbing his temple briefly while a muscle in his jaw ticked rhythmically. Whatever she was saying on the other end was met with his mounting, cold irritation.
“That meeting can wait. I’m occupied.” He listened for a few seconds and replied. “Then fucking handle it, Nat. Do not call me unless the building is on fire.”
He ended the call with a violent swipe of his thumb and shoved the phone away, staring darkly at the seat ahead of him.
I did nothing, but I felt like I was caught in between whatever the problem was.
The tension in the car was so thick I could almost feel it pressing against my skin.
Were they arguing because he had left his work to come to the hospital? She did say he was busy.
“Is everything okay?” I asked softly, the question escaping before I could pull it back.
Silas didn't turn. “It's nothing that concerns you,” he snapped.
I recoiled, hurt at his reaction. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
He took a deep breath, still looking ahead. “It’s under control.” He hesitated. “Natalie simply wants to ensure that everything runs smoothly.”
Another lapse of silence followed, heavy and suffocating. I looked down at the grainy images in my lap, feeling like our dynamic was about to grow more complicated with the addition of the baby. Then I remembered his reaction in the doctor’s office when he heard the heartbeat; when he asked the doctor about the baby.
His voice cut through the silence, surprisingly neutral.
“I got word from your sister,” he said. “Lily is fine.”
My head snapped toward him and he was already looking at me. “You’ve heard from her? She arrived safely?”
“Yes,” he replied, his dark eyes boring into me. He didn't look angry, just distant. “She contacted my security detail to check in.”
“Security detail?”
“Just safety measures,” he replied flatly.
A wave of relief and gratitude washed over me, making my shoulders sag. Although I was a bit hurt that my sister hadn't thought to inform me that she had arrived as well. Nonetheless, I was grateful and relieved that she had Silas looking out for her.
“Thank you for looking out for Lily,” I offered. “And also for telling me. I’ve been so worried about her.”
He didn't acknowledge my gratitude. He simply turned back to the window as the car pulled up to a curb in Nolita, Hudson Square.
I looked out and realized we were at a luxury maternity atelier, its windows displaying silks and velvets that looked like they cost more than my life.
My anxiety spiked. I had a horrible experience with places like this the last time that had left a lasting bitter taste in my mouth.
There was no gaudy signage, only a gold-lettered name on the glass: IVANKA’S.
”Why are we here?” I asked, my voice laced with sudden nervousness.
The memory of Chloe Laurent and the humiliation of my last shopping excursion flashed through my mind.
“Get out of the car, Vera,” was his only reply.
He got out of the car, and mustering all the courage that I could, I followed suit.
Inside, the atmosphere was a world away from the hostility I had expected and was dreading.
It was almost immediately that a woman with a sharp bob and an air of effortless elegance stepped forward, her green eyes lighting up the moment she saw Silas.
She bowed her head with practiced grace.
“Mr. Rutherford,” she gave a slight bow, her voice a warm contralto. “We got your call. Everything is ready.” She turned to me with a small polite smile. “And you must be Mrs Rutherford. It is an honor to have you here. I'm Ivanka. The lead designer and owner here at Ivanka’s.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Good,” Silas said, his voice regaining that familiar steely authority. "Let's get on with it. My wife needs a suitable and appropriate wardrobe,” his gaze flickered to my stomach.” Ivanka gave a knowing smile.
“And also something fitting for public functions and the months to follow. Ensure she has everything that she needs.”
”Of course,” she smiled, gesturing toward a private lounge area. “This way, please,” she led the way. “I have prepared several pieces. If you’ll allow me to get the fitting room ready, I’ll return in just a moment.”
Silas barely nodded. I offered a light smile.
Once she was out of earshot, I turned to Silas, my fingers knotting together. “Do I really... I don't need any new clothes. I don't need all of this,” I protested in a small voice.
He stepped closer, his presence a towering weight that seemed to swallow the room.
“What you want…doesn't matter,” he said, his voice low and cold. “Not in this case. And this is definitely not up for debate.”
Suddenly I felt embarrassed for even trying to resist. “I'm sorry. It's just that—”
He cut in cleanly. “Listen carefully to this. No matter how I feel about you personally, in the eyes of the world, you're my wife.” The possessiveness in his eyes and voice made my breath catch softly in my throat. “More importantly, the world sees you as the mother of the Rutherford heir. You will not go through this pregnancy looking like a commoner. You will look the part. That is non-negotiable.”
The mother of the Rutherford heir.
The lie felt like pins in my throat. If only that were true.
“But—”
“That's enough,” he said, his gaze narrowing. “Now, go. I don't have all day.”
As if on cue, Ivanka reappeared.
“If you would follow me, madam, I have prepared the private fitting suite.”
I walked away with her feeling like I was floating through space.
The fitting was an exhausting blur of silk, velvet, and Ivanka’s quiet, professional instructions. Contrary to my first experience, she treated me with the utmost respect, and professionally gave her opinions as she draped fabrics over my frame, very conscious of my growing middle.
Some minutes into the fitting, Silas walked in and sat on the leather armchair in a corner, his attention on his phone. But I was aware of his burning gaze that felt like it was peeling back layers of my skin.
He gave brief, almost imperceptible nods to several gowns, his face a mask of indifference, until Ivanka brought out a dress of deep, midnight-teal velvet.
When I stepped out in it, the room went still. The fabric clung to the subtle curve of my stomach, highlighting the softening curves of my body. I stood before my intimidating husband, feeling exposed.
Ivanka excused herself to see if the other dresses were ready for me to fit them too. I was left alone with Silas.
With his cellphone momentarily forgotten, he stood up and walked toward me, stopping just behind my shoulder, his eyes holding mine fixedly in the mirror reflection.