Chapter 2 - The Mansion on the North Shore
The black armored Mercedes-Benz glided through the wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate just past midnight. The tires crunched softly against the freshly plowed gravel driveway, spraying wet slush into the perfectly manicured hedges.
Ethan sat in the back seat in absolute, suffocating silence. Grace sat on the opposite side of the leather interior, staring resolutely out the window at the looming, gothic-revival architecture of the mansion. She hadn't spoken a single word since he practically carried her out of the Magnolia Grand, overriding her furious protests with the terrifying authority of a man accustomed to getting his way by any means necessary.
When the car stopped beneath the grand stone portico, Ethan stepped out first, opening the door for her and extending a gloved hand.
Grace looked at his hand as if it were a venomous snake. She ignored it, swinging her legs out of the car and standing up on her own, though she winced slightly as a sharp spasm of lower-back pain—the unmistakable toll of standing for twelve hours on hotel floors—shot through her frame.
Ethan saw the wince. Without asking, his strong arm slid around her waist, supporting her weight effortlessly as he guided her up the front steps.
“I can walk,” she muttered through gritted teeth.
“Shut up, Grace,” he replied, his voice surprisingly gentle beneath its rough edges.
The massive oak double doors swung open before they even reached the threshold. Standing in the brightly lit foyer was Vivian Moretti. The matriarch of the family wore a tailored emerald silk robe, her silver-streaked hair pinned back in an immaculate chignon, her diamond earrings catching the crystal chandelier light.
Vivian’s cold, aristocratic gaze swept from Ethan to the exhausted, pregnant woman leaning against his side. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of genuine shock crossed Vivian’s features, but it vanished instantly, replaced by a mask of icy, calculated disdain.
“Ethan,” Vivian said smoothly, stepping forward. “I heard your car in the drive. I assumed you were escorting Meredith home after the charity gala. What on earth is she doing here?”
Ethan didn't answer immediately. He guided Grace past his mother, toward the grand staircase leading to the private family suites on the second floor.
“Ethan,” Vivian repeated, her voice sharpening with authority. “I asked you a question. Release that girl immediately. Security can escort her to the staff quarters in the east wing if she requires lodging for the night, but she has no business in the main house.”
Ethan stopped at the base of the marble staircase. He turned his head slowly, looking back at his mother with eyes that made even the hardened veteran of Chicago’s underworld take an involuntary step backward.
“She isn't staying in the east wing, Mother,” Ethan said, his voice vibrating with a quiet, lethal menace. “And she isn't a guest.”
Vivian raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Then what is she?”
“She is my wife,” Ethan said clearly, each word dropping like lead shot into the silence of the foyer. “And she is carrying my child. The heir you claimed never existed.”
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Vivian’s face drained of color, but her posture remained rigid. She looked at Grace with pure venom. “So the little maid finally managed to trap you with a belly. How predictable. I suppose she spun some grand, pathetic tale about how I forced her out?”
“She didn't have to spin a tale,” Ethan said, his voice dropping into a deadly whisper. “Because tonight, Mother... we are going to have a very long conversation about loyalty, family, and what happens to people who betray a Moretti.”
