"He had heard his mother call her dramatic for months, then came home to a scene no husband could defend."

Margaret sent for Abigail at 10:15 a.m.

The maid knocked gently and kept her eyes low.

“Mrs. Whitmore wants to see you in the east bedroom.”

Abigail looked up from the nursery catalog spread across the small breakfast table.

“Did she say why?”

The maid hesitated.

“No, ma’am.”

That hesitation told Abigail enough.

The east bedroom was not Margaret’s room. It was the formal guest suite used for important visitors, with a chandelier ceiling, white bed, cream curtains, carved wooden bedposts, and marble floors polished so bright they reflected your fear back at you.

Margaret liked that room.

It made every conversation feel like a trial.

Abigail almost refused.

Then she imagined Margaret telling Nathan, “I tried to speak with her kindly, but she wouldn’t even come downstairs.”

So Abigail went.

She wore a white satin robe over a white maternity dress because it was the only thing loose enough to feel comfortable that morning.

Margaret was already waiting beside the bedpost.

Her burgundy dress looked too formal for morning. Her pearls were perfectly arranged. Her smile was gone.

On the bed sat a folder.

Abigail’s stomach tightened.

“What is this?” she asked.

Margaret placed one hand on the carved post.