“I’m not leaving.” Chantal wheeled around on him. “And this is not happening.”
As she tossed the divorce petition to the floor at his feet, all he could think of was that he didn’t have time for this. “Listen, Chantal, we can do this the easy way or the hard way—it’s your choice. But know if you choose the latter, I will go after not only you, but your family. How do you suppose your Baptist parents would feel if they received a copy of your medical records on their front doorstep? I don’t think they’re pro-choice, are they?”
“You can’t do that!”
“Don’t be stupid, Chantal. There are all kinds of people I can call on, people who owe my family debts that they are eager to pay off.” He walked back to the bar and poured more Family Reserve into his glass. “Or how about this one. How about those medical records fall into the hands of the press, or maybe an online site? People would understand why I’m divorcing you—and you’d have a hell of a time finding another husband. Unlike up north, we Southern men have standards for our wives, and they do not include abortion.”
There was a long stretch of silence. And then the smile that came back at him was inexplicable, so confident and calm, he wondered if she’d gone daft in the last two years.
“You have more to keep quiet than I do,” she said softly.
“Do I.” He took a deep draw from the edge of his glass. “How do you figure that. All I did was the right thing by a woman I supposedly got pregnant. Who knows if it was mine, anyway.”
She pointed to the paperwork. “You are going to make that go away. You are going to allow me to stay here for however long I want. And you are going to escort me to the Derby festivities tomorrow.”
“In what parallel universe?”
Her hand went to her lower belly. “I’m pregnant.”
Lane barked out a laugh. “You tried that once before, sweetheart. And we all know how it ended.”
“Your sister was wrong.”
“About you stealing jewelry? Maybe. We’ll see about that.”
“No, about the fact that I don’t have every right to be here. And so does my child. As a matter of fact, my child has as much right to the Bradford legacy as you and Gin do.”
Lane opened his mouth to say something—and then slowly closed it. “What are you talking about.”
“I’m afraid your father is no better a husband than you are.”
A tinkling rose up from his glass, and he looked down, noting from a vast distance that his hand was shaking and causing the ice to agitate.
“That’s right,” Chantal said in a slow, even voice. “And I think we’re all aware of the delicate condition of your mother. How would she feel if she knew that her husband had not only been unfaithful, but that a child was going to be born? Do you think she’d take more of those pills she’s already so reliant on? She probably would. Yes, I’m sure she would.”
“You bitch,” he breathed.
In his mind, he saw himself locking his hands around the woman’s throat and squeezing, squeezing so hard that she started to struggle as her face turned purple and her mouth gaped.
“On the other hand,” Chantal murmured, “wouldn’t your mother enjoy knowing that she was going to be a grandmother for the second time? Wouldn’t that be cause for celebration.”
“No one would believe it’s mine,” he heard himself say.
“Oh, but they will. He’s going to look just like you—and I’ve been going up to Manhattan on a regular basis to work on our relationship. Everyone here knows it.”
“You lie. I’ve never seen you.”
“New York City is a big place. And I’ve made sure that all are aware in this family are aware that I’ve seen you and enjoyed your company. I’ve also talked about it to the girls at the club, their husbands at parties, my family—everybody has been so supportive of you and me.”
As he remained silent, she smiled sweetly. “So you can see how those divorce papers aren’t going to be required. And how you aren’t going to say a thing about what happened between us with our first baby. If you do, I’m going to blow the lid wide open on your family and embarrass you in front of this community, your city, your state. Then we’ll see how long it takes you to have to put on your funeral suit. Your mother’s out of it, but she’s not totally isolated—and her nurse reads her the paper every morning right beside her bed.”
With a self-satisfied expression, Chantal turned away and shoved the panels open, clipping her way out into the marble foyer, once again the lady of leisure with the Mona Lisa smile.
Lane’s entire body shook, his muscles screaming for action, for vengeance, for blood—but the rage was not aimed at his wife any longer.
It was all directed toward his father.
Cuckold. He believed that was the old-fashioned word that was used to describe this kind of thing.
He’d been cuckolded by his own goddamn father.
When in the hell was this day going to be over, he thought.
TWENTY-FIVE