Chapter 2 - The Due Date
“When are you due?” Grant asked, his voice tighter than he intended.
Claire didn’t shrink under his gaze. The soft, elegant poise that Grant had once mistaken for passivity now felt like armor.
“November,” Claire replied smoothly. “Six weeks.”
Grant’s mind raced through the timeline. Two years since their divorce finalized. Eighteen months since she had cut all direct contact, handling every lingering detail through her attorneys.
He looked at Ethan Mercer. The tech billionaire stood with a relaxed, powerful posture, his hand hovering near Claire’s back, protective without being overbearing.
“November,” Grant repeated, trying to process the math. “So this happened…”
“Nine months ago,” Ethan interrupted calmly, his deep, level voice cutting through Grant’s unspoken calculation. “Claire and I were in London for the Mercer Foundation gala.”
The casual drop of London and the foundation gala hit Grant like a cold splash of water. When they were married, Grant had always dismissed Claire’s charitable ambitions as vanity projects, refusing to take time off his real estate deals to fly across the Atlantic for her causes. Ethan, it seemed, had not only flown with her; he had built an empire that funded them.
Madison caught up, her medical boot thumping against the polished marble floor. She looked between Grant’s pale, rigid face and Ethan Mercer’s impossibly handsome, serene features.
“Grant, my foot is really throbbing,” Madison whined softly, clutching his forearm. “Can we please check in?”
Claire’s eyes flickered to Madison’s hand on Grant’s arm. There was no jealousy in her expression—only a quiet, almost pitying amusement.
“You should take care of your friend, Grant,” Claire said gently. “Dr. Sterling is very thorough. I’m sure her ankle will be fine.”
“She’s my girlfriend, Claire,” Grant said sharply, a desperate need to assert his relevance bubbling to the surface.
Claire smiled—a small, serene tilt of her lips. “I know, Grant. I read the tabloids. Congratulations.”
She turned back to Ethan, placing her hand over his. “Ethan, the nurse said Dr. Sterling is ready for the ultrasound.”
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“After you, sweetheart,” Ethan said softly, guiding her toward the private consultation doors. Before he stepped through, Ethan paused and looked back at Grant over his shoulder. “Oh, Whitmore. By the way—I saw the quarterly figures for your Hudson Yards project. Rough quarter. If you need a bridge loan to cover the debt yield, have your CFO call my office. We’re always looking for underperforming assets to acquire.”
With that, the doors closed, leaving Grant standing in the middle of the waiting room, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned blue.
