Chapter 3 - The Diagnosis of the Dispossessed
The east guest suite was larger than the entire cottage my mother and I had rented in Gloucester before her illness. The walls were lined with silk panels the color of crushed pearls, and the bed was an enormous four-poster affair hung with heavy green velvet that smelled of lavender and old linen.
Dr. Harrison, an elderly man with silver spectacles and the soft, deliberate hands of a surgeon who had retired to care only for the very wealthy, closed his leather bag with a sharp click.
"The bruising on the cheek will resolve in four days, Mr. Vale," the doctor said, turning toward the door where Cassius was standing with a glass of clear water. "The lip is a simple laceration. But the nutritional markers are... concerning. She is approximately twelve weeks pregnant, and her iron levels suggest she has been living on tea and dry toast for the better part of a season."
"She was a live-in maid at the Thorne estate," Cassius said from the doorway. He hadn't entered the bedroom; he remained on the threshold, his shoulder braced against the walnut frame, his eyes fixed on the small fire burning in the grate. "The Senator prefers his staff to look invisible. Apparently, that includes their diet."
"She needs protein, rest, and an total absence of stress for the next three months if the placenta is to attach properly," Dr. Harrison reported, pulling on his wool gloves. "She has a slight heart murmur, likely caused by the fatigue. I've left a regime of supplements on the vanity. Do not let her walk down those stone stairs until the color returns to her ears."
When the doctor had gone, the room became so quiet I could hear the rhythmic ticking of the tall grandfather clock in the corridor. I lay beneath the heavy green quilt, wearing a white cotton nightgown Mrs. Gable had provided—one that smelled of sunshine and starch, with no aprons or pinafores attached.
Cassius walked over to the bed, his movements so silent they seemed almost unnatural for a man of his bulk. He set the glass of water on the nightstand next to the silver bracelet.
"You didn't tell me," he said.
I looked at the water, then at the silver chain. "I didn't know myself until three weeks ago. And we... we had one night, Cassius. You are the Don of the Vale family. I am Eleanor Whitfield’s daughter. If I had called your office, your guards would have thrown me into the harbor before I reached the elevator."
"Julian would not have thrown you into the harbor," Cassius said, his voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous register. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the wood giving a short, tight creak under his weight. He reached out and picked up the bracelet, his thumb tracing the tiny flower charm. "Your mother was a Grace, Mara. Her family owned the timber mills in Maine before my grandfather bought the rail lines. You are not a stranger who wandered into a tavern. I knew exactly whose blood was in your veins when I sat down at your table."
My breath hitched. "You knew who I was?"
"I don't leave my survival to chance," he said, setting the bracelet back down with a small, metallic clink. "I knew your mother had died. I knew the Thorne family had taken your indenture to cover the outstanding medical debts at the county hospital. I was waiting for the Senator to complete his transition of the port authority before I took your contract from his ledger."
"You wanted to buy me?" The old anger—the hot, defensive pride my mother had drilled into me—rose through the fatigue. "Like a horse? Like a piece of machinery for your docks?"
"I wanted to remove you from a house where women are treated like wallpaper," Cassius said, his face remaining perfectly still. He reached out and touched my jaw, his thumb pressing very gently against the side that Bianca hadn't struck. His skin was cold from the sea air, but his touch was surprisingly light. "And now you have my child in your belly, Mara. That changes the valuation of the property. You are no longer an indenture. You are the ledger itself."
May you like
"He's mine," I said, my hand returning to my stomach under the quilt. "He doesn't belong to the Vale family. He doesn't belong to the port authority."
"We will see what the courts say about that when Thorne’s daughter is standing in front of a grand jury," Cassius said, rising from the bed and pulling his jacket straight. "Eat the broth Mrs. Gable is bringing. If you leave this bed before Friday, I will have Julian lock the door from the outside."
