CHAPTER 16 — Family Dinner Disaster

POV: Claire

The evening had been planned weeks in advance, but tonight felt like walking into a trap. Margaret had insisted on hosting a family dinner, claiming it was to “welcome everyone properly,” but the glint in her eyes told a different story. I knew her too well—she loved these orchestrated games, designed to expose weaknesses, to test patience, to provoke. And tonight, I feared I was the target.

I adjusted my dress in the mirror one last time, pulling the fabric down over my stomach to hide the subtle curve that had begun to emerge. My hand lingered there for a moment, and I felt a flicker of warmth, then guilt. No one could know yet. Not Ryan, not Sophie, not Margaret. The secret I carried had to remain mine… at least for now.

I arrived first, as instructed, carrying a bottle of wine I knew Margaret would judge. She greeted me with that carefully neutral smile that never reached her eyes. “Claire,” she said, her voice smooth, “you look… well.”

“Thank you, Margaret,” I replied, forcing a smile that felt brittle. My stomach twisted at the subtext I could hear beneath the words. She was already sizing me up. Watching. Waiting.

Soon, Sophie and Ryan arrived, both radiant, unaware of the storm that hovered over the evening. Ryan’s hand brushed against mine briefly as we sat, sending a familiar heat crawling up my spine. I clenched my jaw, reminding myself to breathe normally.

The dinner began with polite conversation. Margaret orchestrated it like a conductor, asking pointed questions, steering topics toward subtle tests of character and morality. She lingered on topics like fidelity, family loyalty, and responsibility—each one a barb aimed to unsettle me.

“So, Claire,” Margaret began, her tone syrupy sweet, “how have you been spending your days now that you’re… living with us?”

I smiled faintly, careful to appear cheerful. “Keeping busy. Running errands, helping Sophie settle in…” My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears.

Margaret’s eyes narrowed, scanning me like a hawk. “That’s good. I hope you’re adjusting well. You must be finding it… different, living with family again after all this time.”

“Yes, quite different,” I murmured, my fingers tightening around my napkin. I could feel the first twinges of nausea from the early pregnancy, and I quickly pressed a hand to my stomach under the table.

Ryan’s eyes flicked to me, a subtle question in their depths. I met his gaze, my lips curling into a forced smile. He understood. He knew my secret, the danger we were dancing around, and yet he said nothing. For now, silence was our friend.

At one point, as Margaret excused herself to the kitchen, Ryan leaned toward me, voice barely audible:

“You’re not pretending too much, are you?” he whispered, thumb brushing my hand.

I shook my head subtly. “I have to,” I whispered back. “It’s not safe yet.”

He pressed a quick kiss to the back of my hand, a silent reassurance that made my chest tighten. The danger of being caught, the thrill of secrecy, the longing all collided into a storm that made it impossible to think clearly.

Margaret returned with a tray of desserts, her eyes sharp, noting every movement. She paused by my side, placing a delicate hand on my arm, ostensibly to help with the platter. Her gaze flicked downward, and my heart skipped. Had she noticed the faint roundness of my belly? Or was it wishful suspicion?

“You seem… different tonight,” she said softly, almost casually. “More… radiant.”

I forced a laugh, trying to mask the panic rising in my chest. “Thank you, Margaret. Must be the good food.”

Margaret’s lips pressed into a thin line, and she moved on, her eyes never leaving me completely. I exhaled slowly, relief mingled with dread. She was close to unraveling our secret, and every subtle move she made reminded me how fragile our façade was.

As dessert was served, Margaret’s questions took a sharper edge. She began comparing Sophie’s pregnancy news rumors she had heard from distant relatives, subtly steering the conversation toward unexpected topics like family secrets, concealed intentions, and trust between women. Every word felt like a knife, aimed at my chest.

Sophie, oblivious, laughed at one of Margaret’s pointed jabs. Ryan reached for my hand, grounding me, but I felt the fire of tension rise in my veins. I had to keep calm, had to maintain composure, but the secret inside me burned hotter than ever.

At the very end of dinner, Margaret’s gaze met mine directly, unwavering, like a storm breaking over a quiet village. “Claire,” she said slowly, deliberately, “some secrets have a way of revealing themselves, no matter how carefully we hide them. I wonder… what truths are being kept from us tonight?”

My pulse raced, a cold shiver running down my spine. The words hung in the air like a guillotine waiting to fall. Ryan’s hand brushed mine again under the table, a silent anchor of reassurance. But even his presence could not fully calm the storm Margaret had started.

I smiled, my voice steady but my hands trembling. “None that I know of, Margaret.”

She inclined her head, lips curling in a knowing smirk. “We shall see,” she murmured, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, the walls closing in.

The rest of the evening passed in a tense fog. Laughter and conversation continued on the surface, but beneath it, currents of suspicion, desire, and fear rippled unchecked. Every glance from Ryan reminded me of what I was hiding, every movement of Margaret hinted at the danger ahead.

By the time the guests departed, I was exhausted—not from the conversation or food, but from the mental gymnastics, the deceit, and the secret I carried. As I stood in the kitchen, watching the last car drive away, I felt the weight of my secret press down on me.

Tomorrow, I knew, the battle would continue. The lies would need to be sustained, the hidden meetings arranged, the tension carefully managed. And yet, somewhere in the chaos, I could not ignore the undeniable truth: I was carrying Ryan’s child. A secret that could shatter everything.

And Margaret was watching.