Chapter 3 - THE BRACELET ON HER WRIST
The world tilted. The fever burned, but a new, icy dread settled in my stomach.
Clara.
Vivian’s quiet, demure personal assistant. The young woman who was always at the house, organizing Vivian’s galas, pouring Marcus’s drinks, looking down at the floor whenever I entered the room.
I shoved the receipt deep into my pocket.
“Thirty minutes, Marcus,” I said, walking past him toward the front door. “The police have already been notified of a trespassing complaint at this address. They arrive in twenty-nine.”
I didn’t wait to see their reaction. I walked out into the freezing autumn air, got into my car, and drove.
I didn't go to the hospital.
I went to Clara’s apartment building across town.
My legal consulting firm dealt in contracts and corporate secrets. I knew how to find people. I knew Clara’s address because I had drafted her employment contract for Vivian three years ago.
I parked outside the modest brick building and buzzed her apartment. No answer. I leaned against the brick wall, my body shivering violently. I couldn't collapse yet.
Just as I was about to give up, a cab pulled up to the curb. Clara stepped out.
She was carrying a sleeping little boy in her arms. He looked to be about five years old. He had Marcus’s dark, curling hair.
Clara froze when she saw me standing by the door.
“Nora,” she whispered, her face draining of color.
“Is his name Leo?” I asked, my voice cracking from the illness.
Clara tightened her grip on the boy. She looked terrified, darting her eyes up and down the street as if expecting someone to jump out of the shadows.
“Please, Nora,” Clara begged, tears springing to her eyes. “Don’t do this here. He’s sick. We just got back from the clinic.”
I looked at the boy. My husband’s son. A child he had been hiding for five years.
Then, my eyes drifted down to Clara’s wrist, which was supporting the boy’s back.
Gleaming under the streetlamp was a heavy, intricate gold bracelet with a distinct ruby clasp.
I stopped breathing.
“Where did you get that?” I demanded, taking a step forward.
Clara looked down at her wrist and flinched.
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That bracelet hadn't just been stolen from my jewelry box. It was the bracelet I was wearing the night I miscarried my only pregnancy four years ago. The night Marcus told me it was “for the best.”
“Vivian gave it to me,” Clara sobbed. “She said it was my reward.”
