Chapter 4 - The Crack in the Foundation
By Wednesday morning, the quiet neighborhood of Newton felt like an open arena. As I walked Kevin to the school bus stop at the corner of Maple Street, I could feel the eyes of the other mothers on my back.
The story had leaked. Not to the major newspapers, but to the local Boston blogs that fed on suburban gossip and corporate drama. “Prominent Boston Architect Facing Paternity Scandal as Billion-Dollar Project Hangs in Balance.”
"Mom, why is Mrs. Gable looking at us like that?" Kevin asked, tugging on my hand as we waited for the yellow bus to round the corner.
I looked across the street. Clara Gable, whose son played soccer with Luke, was standing by her mailbox, pretending to read a magazine while staring directly at my navy suit. When she caught my eye, she quickly looked away, rushing back inside her house.
"She's just thinking about something else, sweetie," I said, kneeling down to adjust Kevin's crooked collar. "Remember what we talked about? No matter what anyone says at school, you and Tommy and Luke are a team. You have the yellow house with the green door."
"And the woman with the pearl necklace," Kevin said, his small fingers reaching out to touch the pearls at my throat. "You're still coming to my art show on Friday, right?"
"Nothing in this world could keep me away," I promised, kissing his cheek just as the bus brakes screeched at the curb.
Once the bus pulled away, I didn't go to my office in Back Bay. I drove straight to the offices of Vance & Associates in downtown Boston—the family firm that Patricia had seized after our parents' deaths.
The office was located in a restored brick building near Fan Pier, looking out over the gray water of the harbor. The receptionist tried to stop me, but I walked past her desk, pushing open the double oak doors of the corner office.
Patricia was standing by the window, a phone to her ear. When she saw me, she told the caller to hold and hung up the phone without breaking eye contact.
"Jenny," she said, her voice smooth as oil. "I didn't expect you to leave your comfort zone so quickly. Have you come to talk about the separation agreement?"
"I came to give you a warning, Patricia," I said, walking to her desk and leaning over the polished mahogany. "You think you're playing a game of corporate leverage. You think you can use Michael's board of directors to force my hand. But you forgot that I spent ten years building a real estate network in this city. I know every developer, every investor, and every judge in Suffolk County."
Patricia let out a short, mocking laugh. "You sell colonial houses to doctors' wives, Jenny. I manage hedge fund assets. Do you really think your little network can stop a certified medical document? The clinic has confirmed the specimen identity. Michael's DNA is on the record."
"Then let's do a court-ordered amniocentesis," I said, my voice steady, my eyes drilling into hers. "If you're truly pregnant with Michael's child, you won't mind a judge supervising the genetic verification before the board meeting on Friday."
A flicker of hesitation passed through Patricia’s eyes—a tiny fracture in the granite wall of her confidence. It lasted for less than a second, but to a real estate agent trained to read the subtle shifts of a buyer's face, it was as loud as a gunshot.
May you like
"An amniocentesis carries a risk to the fetus, Jenny," she said, her voice rising slightly in pitch. "I would never jeopardize Michael’s heir just to satisfy your jealousy. The board doesn't need a court order. They just need a signature from you stating that you won't contest the divorce or the asset division."
"Then the answer is no," I said, straightening up. "Tell your investors to pull the plug on the contract, Patricia. Michael can build another firm. But you can't build another lie once this one falls apart."
