Chapter 10 - The Price of My Unborn Child|
Celeste Locke found out forty-eight hours later.
I never learned whether Graham told her himself or whether she discovered it through someone else.
But on Thursday morning, an enormous bouquet arrived at my apartment.
White roses.
The same flowers that had filled the ballroom at my wedding.
A card was tucked between the stems.
Congratulations on fulfilling your duty to the Locke family.
I stared at the words.
Then I handed the card to Naomi.
“Keep it.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Evidence?”
“And a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That she doesn't see this baby as a person.”
An hour later, Celeste called.
I declined.
She called again.
Then she sent a message.
We need to discuss arrangements for the heir.
The heir.
Not her grandchild.
Not my baby.
A title.
An asset.
A future signature on a billion-dollar trust.
I blocked her number.
By noon, her attorney contacted Naomi.
The proposal was astonishing.
Celeste wanted me to return to Locke House for the remainder of my pregnancy.
A family-selected medical team would supervise my care.
The Locke family would cover all expenses.
In return, I would agree to negotiate custody and future decision-making arrangements under which the child would be raised primarily within the Locke household.
There was also a confidentiality agreement.
And a proposed payment large enough to make most people question their principles.
Naomi read the documents twice.
Then she looked at me.
“They're offering you ten million dollars.”
I glanced at the number.
For five years, I had believed money was the language Graham understood best.
Now his mother was using it to purchase my obedience.
“Tell them no.”
Naomi nodded.
“I assumed that would be your answer.”
“Can they force me to return?”
“No.”
“Can they take my child because they're wealthy?”
“Not simply because they're wealthy.”
She studied me carefully.
“Any future custody question would be handled under the law, with the child's welfare central to the decision.”
I rested my hands on my stomach.
“Then I intend to make sure this baby has a safe home.”
Meanwhile, the investigation into Meridian Relief was growing.
Iris had provided original reports.
Henry had preserved his driving records.
Walter had given a statement about finding me on the highway.
Sloane had retained counsel and begun cooperating with investigators.
Thomas Reed had arranged for the trust's relevant records to be preserved and made available through lawful channels.
And Naomi had referred the medical supply evidence to the appropriate state and federal authorities.
The preliminary findings were disturbing.
Several companies connected to Victor Dane had been purchasing discounted medical stock through opaque intermediaries.
Some products were then represented in charitable records as fully compliant supplies.
Invoices showed inflated values.
Money traveled through shell companies before appearing in accounts connected to Graham's business empire.
The pattern suggested more than careless bookkeeping.
It suggested a system designed to transform dangerous inventory and false charitable expenses into money that could be hidden.
I sat through meetings with investigators who asked precise questions.
They wanted dates.
Documents.
Original records.
Witnesses.
They did not want dramatic accusations.
And I was grateful.
For the first time, powerful people were being asked to explain themselves with evidence instead of threats.
Still, Graham wasn't finished.
On Friday afternoon, he appeared outside Naomi's office.
I was leaving with June when he stepped from a black SUV.
“Hannah.”
June moved closer.
I stopped.
“What?”
He looked thinner.
His eyes were tired.
For a moment, I remembered the young man who had proposed to me beside the ocean.
He had promised to give me the world.
I had been foolish enough to believe he meant a world we could share.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Through our attorneys.”
He glanced at June.
“Please.”
The word surprised me.
Graham rarely said please unless he wanted something desperately.
I folded my arms.
“You have two minutes.”
He stepped closer but stopped when June remained beside me.
“Mother shouldn't have sent that proposal.”
“Then tell her to withdraw it.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
He looked at my stomach.
“How are you feeling?”
I almost laughed.
“You're asking now?”
His jaw tightened.
“I've been trying to reach you.”
“You know where my attorney is.”
“Hannah, I'm still the baby's father.”
I held his gaze.
“You are.”
For a moment, relief crossed his face.
Then I continued.
“But that doesn't erase what happened.”
He looked away.
“I never meant for you to get hurt.”
“You ordered me out of the car.”
“I was angry.”
“You weren't angry.”
He looked back.
“You were inconvenienced.”
The words struck him harder than shouting would have.
I continued.
“You weren't frightened for Sloane's life.”
“You don't know that.”
“I know enough.”
His expression changed.
I saw the calculating man return.
“What have you been told?”
I stared at him.
“About the warehouse?”
He became still.
“About the medical charity?”
His face hardened.
“Stay out of my business.”
I felt my child beneath my hands, still too small to make a movement I could recognize.
And suddenly, I understood something important.
Graham was more afraid of losing control of his company than losing his marriage.
Even now.
Even after discovering he was going to become a father.
“You don't own the truth,” I said.
He leaned closer.
“You have no idea what you're getting involved in.”
“Then explain it.”
He said nothing.
I nodded.
“That is what I thought.”
As I turned away, he caught my attention with one final sentence.
“Tomorrow night is the foundation gala.”
I stopped.
“If you embarrass the family, there will be consequences.”
I looked over my shoulder.
“Graham, there have already been consequences.”
Then I walked away.
That evening, Naomi received confirmation that investigators were preparing to seek additional records from Locke Medical Logistics.
The foundation's planned acquisition was attracting scrutiny.
And several investors were beginning to ask questions Graham couldn't easily dismiss.
I looked at the invitation Celeste had sent weeks earlier.
Gold lettering.
Black paper.
An evening celebrating compassion and medical excellence.
I thought of Rosa Alvarez.
Of Iris Bell.
Of every vulnerable patient who had trusted a box stamped with the Locke family name.
Then I looked at Naomi.
“I want to attend.”
She studied me.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then we do it carefully.”
I nodded.
May you like
Because tomorrow night, Graham Locke would stand before hundreds of people and praise his family's generosity.
And this time, someone would be there to ask what that generosity had actually cost.
