He looked at me with open irritation. “God, can you do anything right? Isabella just saved us from foreclosure. She just wrote a check for two million dollars to clear the family debt, and you can’t even serve a proper dinner.”
I froze. My hand instinctively went to the pocket of my maternity apron. Inside, folded inside a grocery receipt, was the real deed to the house. The deed that transferred ownership from the bank not to Isabella, but to the Clara Thorne Trust.
They didn’t know I had an inheritance. They thought I was the “poor girl” Ethan had married in a moment of rebellion. They didn’t know I had spent the last of my grandmother’s legacy to buy this house anonymously to save Ethan’s pride.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “I’m just… tired.”
“Tired,” Karen scoffed, cutting into her beef. “You’ve been unemployed for a year, Clara. What exactly are you tired from? Sitting on the couch?”
“I’m growing two people, Karen,” I said, a spark of defiance flaring in my chest.
“Well, try to be useful while you do it,” Ethan muttered. “Get the wine.”
I turned back toward the sidebar. As I reached for the heavy bottle, a sharp, tearing pain ripped through my lower abdomen. It felt like lightning striking my spine.
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