“You were never part of this family—you’re nothing but a useless freeloader carrying my grandson, so get under that table, eat what we throw away, and be grateful my son still lets you live in his house.”

By the time they reached Northside Hospital, Gwen’s contractions had slowed, but her blood pressure had not.

Dr. Patel was calm in the way only people who saw fear every day could be calm. She checked the monitor, listened, then pulled Lucas aside while Gwen changed into a gown.

“Baby looks okay,” she said. “But Gwen’s under too much stress. If this keeps happening, we could be talking about preeclampsia and an early delivery. Whatever is going on at home needs to change today.”

Lucas nodded, because saying the rest out loud would have meant admitting how far things had already gone.

While Gwen rested, his phone buzzed with missed calls from Mason Reeves, his operations partner, and two emails from the bank asking whether he was still coming to the three o’clock renewal meeting.

Then a text came from a number he recognized only after opening it.

Elise Warren. One of the women from the lunch.

I’m sorry for what happened. Brenda told us Gwen insisted on helping and had been “hormonal” all week. That wasn’t what I walked into. Also—your mother told us you were at the office until evening. She kept checking the time.

Lucas read it twice.

A second message followed.

And she took your folder from the hall table before we sat down. Said she needed to “keep family business from nosy eyes.”

He stood up so fast the plastic visitor chair tipped backward.

When Gwen woke an hour later, he showed her the messages.

“She knew what was in the folder,” he said.

Gwen closed her eyes. “Then this wasn’t about lunch.”

No. It wasn’t.

Lucas stepped into the hallway and called the office. Tasha Greene, their controller, answered on the second ring.

“Tasha, I need every expense report tied to Mercer Logistics for the last twelve months. And I’m not signing anything today.”