Constance Fairchild entered enveloped in expensive fragrance and unmistakable authority, her gaze sweeping across the suite with open disapproval and simmering indignation. Her eyes lingered briefly on the plush bedding, subdued lighting, and polished furnishings before narrowing with thinly concealed hostility.
“A private suite,” she remarked sharply, tapping the frame of my hospital bed with the pointed tip of her shoe. A sudden surge of pain radiated through my abdomen, forcing me to suppress an involuntary gasp. “My son works tirelessly while you indulge yourself in surroundings better suited for luxury vacations than medical recovery. The absence of shame in this arrangement continues to astonish me.”
Without waiting for a response, she pushed the documents closer toward me.
“Vivienne cannot conceive children,” she continued flatly, her tone devoid of hesitation or empathy. “She requires an heir to preserve the family lineage. You will provide her with one of the twins. The boy will be transferred to her guardianship. You may retain the girl.”
For several seconds, comprehension refused to align with reality, because the proposition itself defied both logic and humanity.
“You cannot be serious,” I whispered weakly, disbelief competing with rising fury. “They are my children, not negotiable assets subject to redistribution.”
“Stop behaving irrationally,” she snapped impatiently, stepping toward Julian’s bassinet with alarming determination. “Your emotional instability is precisely why decisive intervention has become necessary. Vivienne is waiting downstairs, and this arrangement benefits everyone involved.”
When her hand extended toward my son, instinct overpowered physical weakness entirely.
“Do not touch my child,” I warned firmly, forcing my body upright despite the searing pain erupting from my incision. “You have neither authority nor consent to approach him.”
She turned abruptly and struck me across the face with shocking force, the impact snapping my head sideways against the metal rail of the bed. A dull ringing filled my ears as warmth trickled from my split lip, while Julian’s startled cries shattered the fragile stillness of the room.
“Insolent girl,” she hissed, lifting my screaming son with possessive indignation. “I am his grandmother, and I will determine what circumstances serve his future best.”