Chapter 2
The silence that followed stretched so long I could hear my own heartbeat.
Diane’s smile never faltered.
She had been caught red-handed, and still she looked like she held all the cards.
“Your imagination has always been too active, Ryan,” she said calmly. “I would never forge my own daughter-in-law’s signature.”
Ryan held the paper up to the light.
“I’ve seen your handwriting on every birthday card, every Christmas note, every check you ever wrote me,” he said, his voice shaking. “This is yours.”
Diane walked to the sink and poured herself a glass of water.
She moved with such composure it made my skin crawl.
“You’re tired from your trip,” she said. “You’re seeing things. Why don’t you go upstairs and rest?”
“I’m not going anywhere until you explain this.”
“There’s nothing to explain. Your wife is hysterical. She started this fight, and now she’s manipulating you against me.”
I tried to speak, but the pain in my wrist made me gasp instead.
Ryan was at my side in an instant.
He wrapped his arm around my shoulder, careful not to touch my injured wrist.
“We’re leaving,” he said.
“Leaving?” Diane laughed. “Where exactly do you plan to go? This is your childhood home. You have nowhere else.”
“We’ll find a hotel.”
“With what money? Your paychecks still deposit into the account I manage for you.”
Ryan’s body went rigid.
I felt it against mine.
He had never mentioned that to me.
“Excuse me?” I whispered.
“It’s for tax purposes,” Ryan said quickly, not looking at me. “Mom has handled my finances since college. I never got around to changing it.”
“Exactly,” Diane purred. “So unless you have a few thousand dollars hidden in that suitcase of yours, you’re not going anywhere tonight.”
Ryan pulled out his phone.
“I have a credit card.”
“Maxed out,” Diane said without hesitation. “I paid it off last month and closed the account. Too much irresponsible spending.”
The room began to spin.
I leaned against Ryan for support.
“How… how could you not know this?” I asked him.
“I travel for work eighty percent of the time,” he said, his voice desperate. “I trusted her to handle everything while I was gone.”
“You trusted me,” Diane corrected. “And I did an excellent job. Every bill paid on time. Every investment watched carefully. I built your future, Ryan. And this is how you repay me? By choosing this… this girl over your own mother?”
“I’m his wife,” I said.
“For now,” Diane answered.
Ryan squeezed my shoulder.
“Give me my money,” he said to his mother. “All of it. Right now.”
“Your money?” Diane’s laugh was sharp. “There is no your money. Everything is in a trust I control. Until you turn thirty-five, I decide when and how you get anything.”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“Three more years of doing exactly what I say, then. Or you can live on the streets with your pregnant wife and see how far that gets you.”
The baby kicked again, harder this time.
I pressed my hand to my stomach and tried to breathe through the contraction that was starting.
It was too early.
Too soon.
“Ryan,” I said, my voice barely audible. “Something’s wrong.”
He looked down at me, and the color drained from his face.
“Clara? What is it?”
“The baby… it hurts.”
Diane rolled her eyes.
“She’s faking it. Classic attention-seeking behavior.”
Ryan ignored her.
He lifted me into his arms, ignoring my cry of protest.
“We’re going to the hospital,” he said.
“You will not take my grandchild out of this house without my permission!” Diane screamed, finally losing her composure.
She ran toward us, her hands outstretched like claws.
Ryan stepped aside so fast she stumbled into the refrigerator.
Glass jars rattled on the shelves.
“If anything happens to my wife or this baby,” Ryan said, his voice low and dangerous, “I will spend every last cent of that trust fund on lawyers until you rot in prison for the rest of your life. Do you understand me?”
Diane froze.
For the first time, I saw real fear in her eyes.
Ryan carried me out the front door.
He didn’t look back.
The warm Charlotte air hit my face as he lowered me into the passenger seat of his car.
“Hold on, baby,” he said, kissing my forehead. “Just hold on.”
He sped toward the nearest hospital, running two red lights in the process.
I closed my eyes and tried to focus on anything but the pain.
How had we gotten here?
Six months ago, we were happy.
Ryan was the man of my dreams—kind, hardworking, excited to be a father.
We had bought a small house on the outskirts of town, painted the nursery soft yellow, picked out names.
Then Diane had suggested we move in with her “temporarily” while we renovated.
Ryan had thought it was a generous offer.
I had agreed only to make him happy.
Now our house was being renovated by Diane’s contractor, our money was in Diane’s account, and our future was in Diane’s hands.
And she had just tried to destroy all of it.
“We’ll get through this,” Ryan said, reaching over to hold my good hand. “I promise you. I’ll fix everything.”
I wanted to believe him.
But as we pulled into the hospital parking lot, I saw something in his eyes that terrified me.
He wasn’t just angry.
May you like
He was scared.
And if Ryan was scared, then we were in much deeper trouble than I thought.
