Chapter 3 - The Seed of Doubt
The next twenty-four hours were a living nightmare. Luke was admitted to the pediatric intensive care unit for observation. While his physical condition stabilized, the atmosphere between Brandon and me deteriorated into a suffocating, icy silence.
Brandon didn't yell. He didn't accuse me. But his withdrawal was worse than any shouting match. He sat on the small vinyl armchair in the corner of the hospital room, staring out the window at the Nashville skyline, his phone buzzing repeatedly. I knew who was calling. Madeline.
Every time his phone lit up with her name, my stomach sickened. She had planned this. She knew. But how could she know Luke’s blood type before we did? We had never run a full genetic or blood type panel on Luke; he had always been a perfectly healthy baby up until his sudden collapse.
"Brandon, please," I begged quietly on Friday morning, while Luke was asleep. "Look at me. Do you truly believe I could ever betray you? You know me. We’ve been together for eight years."
Brandon finally turned his head. His eyes were red, shadowed by dark circles. "Chloe, I want to believe you. With all my heart, I do. But science doesn't lie. The doctor said it's genetically impossible. And my mother... she sent me a text this morning. She said she has proof. She said she’s known for a year."
"Proof of what?!" I cried out, trying to keep my voice down so as not to wake Luke. "Proof of a lie! She has hated me from the moment you introduced us. She hated that I didn't come from her old-money social circle. She is trying to destroy us, Brandon!"
"We need a DNA test, Chloe," Brandon said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "For my own sanity. For the sake of whatever is left of our family. I’ve already ordered a rapid-result legal paternity test. They are coming to the hospital to swab us today."
A tear slipped down my cheek, hot and bitter. "Fine. Let them swab us. Let them test whatever they want. I have nothing to hide. But if—no, when—the results prove you are his father, you will have to live with the fact that you doubted your wife and your son when we needed you most."
He looked down, unable to meet my gaze.
Two hours later, a legal DNA collection specialist arrived at the hospital room. They swabbed Brandon’s cheek, then Luke’s, and finally mine to run a maternity comparison as well, just to ensure complete accuracy.
As the specialist packaged the vials, I caught sight of a nurse entering the room to change Luke’s IV fluid. She looked at me with a strange, lingering expression. It was the same nurse who had handled Luke’s intake the night before.
When Brandon stepped out of the room to take yet another call from his mother, the nurse—a kind-faced woman in her late fifties named Rosemary—lingered by Luke’s bedside.
"Mrs. Carter," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "I shouldn't be telling you this. It’s a violation of hospital protocol. But I saw who brought in the early lab results for your son’s blood work yesterday before the doctor even ordered them."
My heart stopped. "What do you mean?"
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"Your mother-in-law, Madeline Carter," Rosemary whispered, keeping her eyes on the door. "She is a major donor to this hospital. Her family’s name is on the pediatric wing. Yesterday afternoon, before you even arrived, her personal assistant delivered a specific file to the lab manager. I saw them exchanging folders. You need to look deeper into who ran those blood tests."
Before I could ask another question, Rosemary squeezed my arm reassuringly and slipped out of the room. A spark of pure, protective maternal rage ignited inside my chest. Madeline hadn't just kicked my son's cake; she had set a trap. And I was going to tear it apart.
