Julian’s heartbeat filled the silence.
At last, Adrian pulled a chair closer, but he did not sit. His hand rested on its back, knuckles pale.
“Before your mother left,” he said slowly, “there was another pregnancy.”
The room narrowed.
My fingers tightened around the blanket. “My mother had another child?”
“No.” His eyes lifted to mine. “Not exactly.”
Marianne’s expression sharpened. “Adrian.”
He nodded once, as if accepting that the truth could no longer arrive in pieces.
“Sofia miscarried,” he said. “Very early. Before either of us had time to understand what it meant. She was devastated, but she didn’t want anyone to know. My father found out anyway.”
“Your father?” I asked.
“Malcolm Cross.” The name seemed to taste bitter in his mouth. “He believed family was a company asset. Bloodlines, heirs, alliances—he saw them all as strategy. When he learned Sofia had been pregnant, he accused her of trying to tie herself to the Cross fortune.”
