Chương 3 - THE SISTER’S CAFE
By Wednesday, I knew I couldn't keep carrying the weight of the secret in complete isolation.
I took the subway down to the West Village, stepping out onto Hudson Street where the narrow brick sidewalks were lined with early autumn leaves and small outdoor dining tables.
Vance & Co. Bakery was a tiny, charming storefront with a dark blue awning, brass window frames, and a gold-leaf sign hand-painted on the glass.
My younger sister, Clara, stood behind the marble counter, wearing a flour-dusted canvas apron over a green sweater, her red hair pinned up in a messy bun with a wooden chopstick. She was laughing with an elderly customer while wrapping a fresh sourdough loaf in brown butcher paper.
Clara was twenty-eight, two years younger than me, and possessed none of my cautious restraint. Where I calculated risk, Clara leaped; where I parsed my words, Clara spoke her mind with blunt, terrifying honesty.
When the customer left, Clara turned toward the door, wiping her hands on her apron. Her face lit up the moment she saw me.
“Em!” she cried, stepping out from behind the counter and pulling me into a warm, flour-scented hug that nearly squeezed the breath out of my lungs. “Look at you! You actually look like a free woman!”
“I’m trying,” I said, smiling into her neck.
Clara pulled back, holding me at arm’s length, her sharp green eyes scanning my face with alarming intensity. “You look pale. Did Ethan’s bloodsucking lawyers take your blood along with your dignity?”
“No,” I said, glancing around the small, empty café. “The settlement was fine, Clara. More than fine.”
“Good. He has six billion dollars. He should have given you a small island in the Caribbean just for putting up with his calendar invitations for dinner.” Clara flipped the lock on the front door, turned the sign to CLOSED, and grabbed my arm. “Come in the back. I just pulled fresh almond croissants out of the oven.”
The back kitchen was warm, filled with the rich, buttery scent of baking pastry and roasted coffee beans. Clara poured two mugs of dark roast coffee, set a plate of hot pastries between us on the stainless-steel prep table, and sat down on a wooden stool across from me.
“Okay,” Clara said, leaning her elbows on the table and pointing a finger at me. “ Spill. How did Monday really go? Did you cry? Did he look miserable? Tell me he looked like he hadn't slept in three weeks.”
“He looked like Ethan,” I said quietly, taking a small sip of my coffee—then immediately setting the mug back down as a sharp wave of nausea hit the back of my throat. I pushed the mug two inches away.
Clara’s eyes darted down to my untouched coffee mug. Then to my face. Then to my hands, which were resting folded tightly over my lower stomach.
The silence in the bakery kitchen grew heavy.
“Emma,” Clara said. Her voice dropped two octaves, losing all its playful energy. “Why aren't you drinking your coffee?”
I swallowed hard. “I’ve been trying to cut back on caffeine.”
“You drink four espresso shots before nine in the morning,” Clara said, her green eyes widening in sudden, horrifying realization. “Emma. Look at me.”
I looked at her.
“Tell me you didn't,” Clara whispered, leaning across the stainless-steel prep table. “Tell me you did not sleep with him before you signed those papers.”
I didn't say a word. I didn't have to. The truth was written across my pale face, in the slight tremor of my bottom lip.
“Oh my God,” Clara gasped, slapping both hands over her mouth. “Oh my God. The final argument? The night you called me crying from the terrace?”
“It was... a mistake,” I whispered, looking down at the stainless-steel table surface. “We were both exhausted. We were emotional. Everything was ending, and for two hours, it felt like we were twenty-five again in Queens.”
“And?” Clara demanded, standing up from her stool and pacing across the tiled kitchen floor like a caged panther. “Did you take a test? Emma! Tell me you took a test!”
I reached into my leather tote bag, pulled out the white paper envelope from Dr. Vance’s office, and slid it across the metal table.
Clara snatched the envelope, pulled out the thermal printout, and stared at the three tiny black-and-white photos of the grain of rice.
She went completely still.
The timer on the double deck oven in the corner let out a sharp BEEP-BEEP-BEEP, but neither of us moved to turn it off.
“Six weeks,” Clara read off the top corner of the printout. “There’s a heartbeat?”
“One hundred and forty-eight beats per minute,” I said softly.
Clara set the paper down on the table as if it were made of delicate glass. She sat back down on her stool, buried her face in her hands, and let out a long, shuddering breath.
“Does Ethan know?” she asked through her fingers.
“No.”
“Emma... you signed divorce papers seventy-two hours ago.”
“I know.”
“He is one of the most powerful, litigious, ruthless men in North America,” Clara said, pulling her hands away from her face and looking at me with pure, unadulterated terror. “If Ethan Blackwood finds out you are carrying his heir—his only child—he will deploy an army of lawyers, private investigators, and corporate PR teams to take control of your entire life.”
“He won't,” I said, my voice steadying. “He doesn't know. And I’m not going to tell him.”
Clara stared at me like I had just suggested jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge. “Emma... you can’t hide a pregnancy from a man who owns three intelligence security firms! You live six miles from his office! What are you going to do when you’re seven months pregnant buying baby clothes in Soho? Put on a fake mustache?”
“I’m leaving Manhattan,” I said quietly.
Clara froze. “What?”
I leaned forward, looking into my sister’s green eyes. “I bought a small house two years ago, Clara. Do you remember the old stone cottage in Upstate New York near Beacon? The one I bought with my own savings from my interior design business?”
“The fixer-upper near the river?”
“It’s finished,” I said. “The renovations were completed three months ago. It’s private, surrounded by four acres of trees, and it’s mine. Ethan doesn't even know it exists because I bought it under my maiden name's single-member LLC before we started divorce proceedings.”
“Emma...” Clara said, her eyes glistening with sudden tears. “You’re going to move up to the woods alone? Pregnant?”
“I’m not alone,” I said, taking her hand across the table. “I have you. I have my health. And I have enough money to build a quiet, safe, beautiful life for my child away from the Blackwood media circus.”
“He will find out eventually,” Clara warned softly. “A man like Ethan doesn't stay ignorant forever.”
“Then let him find out when I am standing on my own two feet,” I said, my voice resolute. “When I am no longer the quiet wife waiting for him to come home from Singapore. When I am a mother who can protect her child from his cold, corporate world.”
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Clara looked at the ultrasound printout, then looked back at me. She wiped a tear from her cheek, squeezed my hand with all her strength, and let out a wet, courageous laugh.
“Okay,” Clara said. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. I’m coming up every weekend. And I’m baking all the prenatal bread.”
