Chapter 2
The ambient hum of the crowded Christmas Eve dinner masked the sound of Clara’s soft, unsteady footsteps as she approached the head of the banquet table. Her vision was blurred with unshed tears, a constant state of being for the past two weeks. She moved with an exhausted, vulnerable manner, keeping her head bowed submissively as she navigated the narrow space between the heavy velvet dining chairs.
"This vintage is spectacular, Sabine," another guest, a wealthy syndicate investor, commented loudly over the holiday music. "You must tell me which vineyard you imported it from."
"I will have my assistant send you the details in the morning, Richard," Sabine replied smoothly, her diamond earrings sparkling. She leaned slightly toward Tristan, though he did not turn to look at her. "Tristan has such refined tastes. I merely try to ensure his home reflects them perfectly."
Clara reached Tristan’s right side. Her hands shook as she tilted the heavy crystal pitcher, carefully pouring the ice water into the gold-rimmed glass beside his plate. The artistic negative-space tattoos on Tristan’s hands caught her eye for a fraction of a second, a painful reminder of the secret, tender moments they had shared in the dark—moments that had resulted in the child she thought was buried in an unmarked grave.
As Clara placed the water glass beside Tristan, Sabine stood up from her velvet chair. She commanded the attention of the room with a graceful sweep of her hand, gesturing toward the head of the table.
It was then that Clara noticed it. A beautiful, ornate cream bassinet stood directly beside Tristan’s chair, partially shielded from the rest of the room by the towering floral arrangements.
"Friends, family," Sabine announced, her voice projecting clearly over the quieted crowd. She looked directly at Tristan, her polished smile widening. "As I said earlier, Christmas is a time for generosity. We have decided to open our home and our hearts. An orphan. Our Christmas miracle."
The guests cooed and murmured their approval, raising their glasses in a toast to the couple's supposed philanthropy.
Inside the cream bassinet, wrapped securely in a soft, expensive blanket, a two-week-old baby boy stirred. Woken by the sudden volume of Sabine's voice, the infant let out a soft, tiny sigh and stretched one small hand above the edge of the blanket, reaching toward the warm golden light of the chandeliers.
The focus of the room was on Sabine, but the focus of the universe suddenly shifted to Clara.
Clara’s expressive, tear-shadowed eyes locked onto the tiny hand stretching into the air. Time seemed to stop entirely. The clean white light illuminated the infant's fair, rosy skin. And there, stark and undeniable on the baby's tiny left wrist, was a distinctive, crescent-shaped birthmark.
May you like
Clara’s heart stopped in her chest. She had held her baby for less than a minute, but a mother never forgets. The room began to spin. The heavy crystal water pitcher slipped dangerously in her trembling grip. She looked directly at Sabine, the polished, smiling woman who had orchestrated her living nightmare.
"My baby," Clara gasped, her voice slicing through the polite applause of the guests. She stared at the woman in the burgundy velvet gown, speaking through a violent, trembling breath. "You said stillborn."
