Chapter 305 - 0305: That Witch... Or Your Baby

Chapter 305: Chapter 0305: That Witch... Or Your Baby

Graham’s Point Of View

The world had already been spinning, but now it felt like someone had yanked the floor out from under my feet. I stood there, frozen, staring at the spreading puddle on the cream-colored rug, watching it bloom outward like some terrible omen. My brain, usually so quick to calculate risks and assets, had suddenly flatlined into a high-pitched ring of white noise.

"Right now?" I heard myself ask, my voice sounding thin and ridiculous even to my own ears. "The baby is coming... like, right now?"

Lillian’s head snapped up, her face a mask of sweat-slicked agony and pure, unadulterated rage. Her eyes blazed with an intensity I’d never seen before, not during our arguments, not during any of the cold silences that had defined our marriage of convenience.

"Are you blind, Graham?" she shrieked, her fingers digging into the upholstery of the chair until her knuckles turned white. "Didn’t you just see the water bag break? I’m not exactly practicing for a theater production here! My God, do something!"

The panic in her voice cut through my paralysis like a knife. This was real. This was happening. The theoretical had suddenly become terrifyingly concrete, and no amount of preparation could have readied me for the way my body refused to cooperate.

"Graham, move!" my mother screamed, her voice hitting a frequency that made my teeth ache. She was already hovering over Lillian, her hands fluttering like frantic birds. "Hurry! Get the keys! Get one of the maids to bring the baby’s things! Don’t just stand there like a statue!"

I snapped into motion, though it felt like I was moving through molasses. My legs finally remembered how to work. I grabbed the keys from my desk, the metal cold and biting against my palm. I lunged toward the door, yelling for the head maid, my voice cracking with urgency.

"Mrs. Higgins! Mrs. Higgins, get to the nursery! Get the bag, the blankets, everything, get it to the car now!"

The house exploded into a chaotic symphony of slamming doors and hurried footsteps. Voices echoed through the halls, staff members calling to one another in controlled panic. I raced back into the study, the air heavy with the scent of iron and fear, my pulse thudding in my ears like a war drum.

I didn’t say a word; I just stepped toward Lillian, trying to project a confidence I absolutely didn’t feel. She looked so small, so fragile in the middle of all this Sinclair-sized drama. For all our differences, for all the distance between us, she was still carrying my child. Our child. The thought landed strangely, heavy and unfamiliar, like a weight I hadn’t agreed to carry but now had no choice but to bear.

I scooped her up, her weight shifting awkwardly as she let out a low, guttural moan against my neck. The sound was primal, terrifying in its rawness, and it rattled something loose in my chest that I didn’t have time to examine.

"Just breathe, Lillian," I muttered, more to myself than her. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard I wondered if she could feel it.

I carried her out to the SUV, the night air hitting us like a bucket of cold water. The shock of it cleared my head slightly, sharpening my focus. My father was already in the passenger seat, looking straight ahead as if he were preparing for a board meeting instead of a birth. Typical. Even now, he maintained that iron composure, that infuriating refusal to let anything crack the surface.

My mother climbed into the back with Lillian, pulling the girl’s head into her lap with surprising tenderness. For all her usual coldness, she seemed to transform in moments like these, as though crisis were the only language that could draw out whatever warmth she had left.

"Hang in there, sweetheart," my mother cooed, her voice surprisingly steady now that there was a clear mission, a problem to solve. "We’ll be at the hospital soon. Just focus on me. Ignore Graham; he’s driving like a grandmother."

I ignored her jab, slamming the car into gear and tearing down the driveway. Gravel sprayed behind us. Every red light felt like a personal insult from the universe, a cosmic joke at the worst possible moment. Every bump in the road elicited a sharp cry from the backseat that made my grip tighten on the steering wheel until I thought it might snap in my hands.

"Can’t you go any faster?" my father barked, checking his watch with the same precision he used to time quarterly earnings calls. "The Sinclair heir isn’t going to wait for traffic, Graham."

"I’m doing sixty in a thirty-five, Dad!" I yelled back, my nerves frayed to a single, buzzing wire. "Unless you want the baby born in a police precinct, let me drive!"

The words came out harsher than I intended, but I was beyond caring about tone. My entire world had narrowed to three things: the road ahead, the woman in pain behind me, and the child about to enter the world whether we were ready or not. Somewhere beneath the panic, a small, traitorous part of my mind kept drifting to Elena, wondering what she would think if she could see me now.

When we finally skidded to a halt at the emergency entrance, the scene became a blur of white coats and sterile lighting. I carried her in, my arms shaking from the adrenaline coursing through my system.

Nurses appeared from nowhere, moving with practiced efficiency, wheeling a stretcher toward us. They eased Lillian onto it with gentle hands, and before I could even say a word, they were whisking her away toward the double doors of the labor ward.

"Wait..." I started, reaching out instinctively, but a nurse put a firm hand on my chest.

"You wait here, Mr. Sinclair," she said, her tone kind but brooking no argument. "We’ll keep you updated."

The doors swung shut with a finality that made my stomach drop. Just like that, I was useless. Powerless. All the money, all the influence, all the control I wielded in boardrooms meant nothing here, in this sterile corridor where the only currency that mattered was time, and I had none to spend.

The next hour was a special kind of hell. I paced the waiting room, the linoleum floor squeaking under my shoes with each turn. The sound became rhythmic, almost meditative, though it did nothing to calm my racing thoughts. My father was on his phone, likely checking the markets or fielding calls from business associates, while my mother sat perfectly upright in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her eyes fixed on the doors like a hawk watching for prey.

My heart was beating a staccato rhythm against my ribs, a mixture of terror and a weird, gnawing guilt that I couldn’t quite name. I caught my reflection in the darkened window and barely recognized the man staring back at me. When had I become this person? When had I let the Sinclair legacy consume everything else?

The reflection seemed to mock me, a hollow-eyed stranger wearing my face, and I looked away before I could find any answers I wasn’t ready for.

An hour later, the doors swung open. A doctor emerged, peeling off his latex gloves. Exhaustion lined his face, though he managed a professional smile.

"Congratulations, Mr. Sinclair," he said, nodding in my direction. "You’re now a father. Your wife just delivered a healthy baby boy."

The word "wife" lodged in my throat like a stone. I parted my lips to correct him, to explain that this woman wasn’t my wife, that my actual wife was somewhere else, probably hating me, but my mother moved with predatory speed. She positioned herself in front of me, her hand clamping onto my arm with enough force to make me wince. Her perfectly manicured nails bit into my skin, drawing blood.

"Of course, doctor," she gushed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness that made my stomach turn. "Thank you so much. A boy... a Sinclair boy."

The way she emphasized our family name sent a chill down my spine. The moment the doctor turned his back, she whirled on me. Her eyes flashed with a dangerous light I’d seen only a handful of times in my life, each one preceding a decision that changed everything.

"You watch your mouth, Graham," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. "Don’t you dare correct him. That girl just gave us an heir. She gave us the one thing we’ve been waiting for... the one thing she couldn’t provide."

The contempt in her voice when referring to Elena made my blood boil, a slow, dangerous heat that threatened to override whatever restraint I had left.

"You will marry Lillian. Do you understand me? You will fix this mess and give this child a legitimate name. You will do what’s right for this family."

"Mom, this isn’t the time..." I started, trying to pull my arm free.

"It is the only time!" she hissed, tightening her grip until I felt certain she’d leave bruises.

They led us into the recovery room. The antiseptic smell hit me first, followed by the sight of Lillian asleep in the hospital bed. Her face looked pale and exhausted, her dark hair matted to her forehead with dried sweat. Despite everything, I felt a pang of sympathy.

Whatever else she’d done, she’d just been through something physically traumatic, something that demanded a kind of courage I wasn’t sure I possessed. But beside her lay a small plastic crib, and within it, a bundle wrapped tightly in a blue blanket.

My mother released my arm and moved toward the crib with a reverence I hadn’t witnessed since she’d acquired her last emerald set at auction. She reached down and lifted the baby with surprising gentleness, cradling him as though he were made of spun glass.

"Look at him," she whispered, her voice catching with genuine emotion. "He has the Sinclair chin. And look at those hands, your father’s hands." She turned to me, her eyes glistening with tears I couldn’t tell were real or calculated. "He’s perfect, Graham. Absolutely perfect."

I stepped closer, my breath catching in my chest. Something pulled me forward despite my resistance. I took the boy from her, my large hands feeling clumsy and inadequate as I cradled his tiny, fragile body. He couldn’t have weighed more than seven pounds, this small creature who’d somehow become the center of everyone’s universe in the span of an hour.

He opened his eyes, dark, curious slits that seemed to look right through me, and for a second, my heart actually softened. The sensation caught me off guard: a strange, warm feeling spreading through my chest, a brief reprieve from the suffocating pressure that had dominated the last few weeks.

This tiny human hadn’t asked to be born into this mess. He was innocent, pure, the only good thing in all of this chaos. The only thing that didn’t feel like a lie or a manipulation. I found myself studying his face, searching for some trace of myself in his small, scrunched features, wondering what kind of man I’d have to become to deserve the trust in those unfocused eyes.

But then, unbidden, the image of Elena flashed through my mind, her laugh, her smile, the way she used to talk about children we might have someday, back when we still believed in someday. I carefully placed the baby back into the crib, my jaw tightening as I forced myself to step away. The warmth in my chest turned back into cold, hard resolve.

I pulled away from the bedside and looked at my mother, meeting her expectant gaze with one of determination. "Elena is my wife," I said, my voice low and steady, each word deliberate. "Legally, she might not be anymore, but in my heart, she’s the only one. And I’m going to get her back. I don’t care about the ’heir’ talk or the family legacy. I want her."

My mother’s face transformed from joyous to homicidal in less than a second. The shift was so dramatic it would have been comical in any other circumstance. She grabbed my arm again, her nails digging in like talons, and practically dragged me out of the room into the quiet hallway. My father followed like a grim shadow, his silence more oppressive than any words could be.

"Are you crazy?" she whispered-yelled, her face inches from mine. I could smell her expensive perfume mixed with the sharp scent of her fury. "Lillian just gave you a child! A son! An heir! Something that barren whore couldn’t give you in six years of marriage! That is something, Graham! That is everything!"

"Mom, stop it," I snapped, my voice rising despite my attempt at control. "Elena is not a whore. Stop calling her that. She was the best thing that happened to this family, and we all treated her like garbage. Like she was disposable."

She scoffed, a jagged, ugly sound that echoed off the sterile hospital walls. "The best thing? Yet she spread her legs for that Jaxx the second she walked out the door? Or maybe even before! Maybe she was warming his bed while still sleeping in yours!"

"It must have been a misunderstanding," I argued, though my own mind screamed at me that I was deluding myself. "Jaxx is... he’s playing a game. He’s using her to get to me, to hurt the family. You know how he operates."

"It’s not a misunderstanding!" my mother shrieked, her carefully maintained composure finally shattering like fine china hitting marble. "He held her, Graham! He wrapped his arms around her like she belonged to him! He called her his woman right in front of us... in front of me! He slapped me, he actually struck me across the face to protect her! That should tell you enough about where her loyalties lie! She’s chosen him over you, over this family, over everything we gave her!"

She stepped back, her chest heaving with emotion, and looked at me with a cold, calculating squint. My father stood behind her like a sentinel, his silence more damning than any of her words. I’d hoped he might intervene, might be the voice of reason, but his stony expression told me he stood firmly on her side, as he always had, as he always would.

"Choose, Graham," she said, her voice dropping to a lethal, quiet hiss that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

I blinked, my confusion momentarily overriding my anger. "What? Choose what?"

My mother nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on mine with a terrifying finality. The look on her face told me she’d already made her decision, already drawn her line in the sand.

"Yes, Graham. Choose," she repeated, each word precise and sharp as a blade. "That witch... or your son."