Chapter 3 - Whispers in the Country Club
The grand ballroom of the Pinecrest Country Club, usually the sanctuary of polite society and muffled laughter, felt like a pressure cooker ready to blow.
Emily’s father, Richard Vance—a prominent real estate developer whose investment had funded Mark’s new architectural firm—stepped forward. His voice carried the weight of an executive who was not used to being made a fool of.
"Mark," Richard said coldly. "Explain what's going on here. Who are these boys?"
"They’re nobody, Richard! I swear to you!" Mark’s voice jumped an octave. Sweat had broken out along his hairline, ruining his polished, golden-boy demeanor. "Claire and I tried for seven years. Every fertility doctor in the state told us she was the problem! She's doing this out of jealousy. She saw the society announcement for our baby shower and decided to ruin Emily's day!"
"I didn't crash your party, Mark," I said, my voice steady, cutting through his hysteria. I reached into my small leather clutch and pulled out the floral invitation card with Mark's handwriting on the envelope. "You sent this to my office. You wrote, 'Thought you’d like to see what a real family looks like.' You wanted me here. You wanted this audience."
Emily’s head whipped toward Mark. "You invited your ex-wife? You told me she tracked you down!"
"Emily, sweetheart, don't listen to her—"
"Is that your handwriting, Mark?" Richard Vance demanded, pointing at the card in my hand.
Mark swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. He couldn't answer.
Meanwhile, Diane had managed to reach the front of the room. She sank to her knees right in front of Luke, ignoring the champagne soaking into the hem of her designer dress. Her fingers trembled as she looked into his face.
"What's your name, sweetheart?" Diane whispered softly, tears pooling in her eyeliner.
"I'm Luke," my son replied bravely, leaning back against my legs. "And that's Owen. We're four."
"Four..." Diane gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Four years old..."
She knew the timeline. Every single person in our old social circle knew the timeline. Mark had walked out of our home four years and two months ago, claiming he was sick of wasting his youth on a woman whose body was "broken."
Mark grabbed his mother by the shoulder, practically yanking her to her feet. "Mom, stop it! Stop humiliating us! Claire was sleeping around if she has four-year-olds! They aren't mine!"
Slap.
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The sound rang through the ballroom like a gunshot.
It wasn't me who struck him. It was David.
