Chapter 5 Whose Child Is It

# Chapter 5: Whose Child Is It

Three weeks after leaving the Monette estate, I found myself staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Manhattan apartment, watching rain streak down the glass. The city sprawled below, gray and glittering, indifferent to my turmoil. My phone buzzed for the fifth time that hour—Gideon again, his texts oscillating between desperate pleas and thinly veiled threats.

I ignored it, just as I'd ignored the flowers delivered daily, the legal documents his attorneys had sent, and the society columnists eager for a comment on my abrupt departure from the Monette vineyard after what they were calling "the wedding of the decade."

What occupied my mind instead was the envelope I'd received that morning from my doctor. I hadn't opened it yet, though I suspected what it contained. The nausea that had plagued me for days, my missed period, the tenderness in my breasts—all signs pointed to one conclusion.

The knock at my door was expected. I'd given my doorman specific instructions about who was allowed up.

"It's open," I called, not turning from the window.

Callum Monette entered, closing the door softly behind him. I could sense his presence, commanding and electric, before I even looked at him. When I finally turned, I found him studying me, his eyes moving from my face to the unopened envelope on the coffee table.

"You know," he said simply.

"I suspect," I corrected. "I haven't confirmed it yet."

He crossed the room, removing his wet coat and draping it over a chair. Beneath it, he wore a charcoal suit that fit his lean frame perfectly. Not for the first time, I noted how different he was from his son—Gideon's boyish good looks paled in comparison to Callum's weathered intensity.

"Open it," he instructed, nodding toward the envelope.

"Why are you here, Callum?" I moved to the bar cart, pouring myself sparkling water. "To check if your investment is bearing fruit?"

His eyes darkened. "You're not an investment, Clarette. You're a wildfire I can't seem to extinguish."

"How poetic." I took a sip of water, fighting another wave of nausea. "And here I thought you came to convince me to return to your son."

"Gideon is..." he paused, searching for the right word, "distraught. He believes he can win you back."

"And what do you believe?"

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Callum moved closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more primal. "I believe you never belonged to him in the first place."

His proximity made my pulse quicken. Despite everything—the manipulation, the family politics, the possibility that I carried his grandchild—my body responded to him with a treacherous heat.

"That night in the wine cellar," I said quietly, "you knew exactly what you were doing, didn't you?"

His hand reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. "As did you when you said 'I do' despite my warning."

We stood like that, tension crackling between us, until the sound of my phone broke the spell. I glanced at the screen—Gideon again.

"He won't stop calling," I said.

"Answer it," Callum suggested, his voice low. "Let him hear my voice in the background."

"You want to torture your own son?"

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "I want him to understand what he's lost."

Before I could respond, another knock came at the door. This time, unexpected. I frowned, moving to check the security monitor. Gideon stood in the hallway, his hair disheveled, his expression frantic.

"Shit," I muttered, turning to Callum. "Did you tell him you were coming here?"

"No," Callum replied, not seeming particularly concerned. "But he's always been resourceful when desperate."

The knocking grew more insistent. "Clarette, I know you're in there!" Gideon's voice called through the door. "We need to talk!"

I hesitated, then moved to open it. Gideon burst in, rain-soaked and wild-eyed. He stopped short when he saw his father.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" he demanded, looking between us.

"Business," I answered smoothly. "Your father and I were discussing my position on the board after our... separation."

Gideon's laugh was bitter. "Business. Right. Is that what you call fucking my father behind my back?"

"Watch your mouth," Callum warned, his voice soft but menacing.

"Or what?" Gideon challenged, stepping closer to his father. "You'll take her from me too? Like everything else I've ever wanted?"

"I'm not a possession to be taken," I interjected coldly. "And you lost any claim to moral outrage when you had sex with Odessa on our wedding day."

Gideon's anger seemed to deflate, replaced by a desperate earnestness that was almost more disturbing. "That was a mistake, Clarette. A terrible mistake. But I love you. I've always loved you." He reached for my hands, his own trembling slightly. "Whatever is happening between you and my father, it can't be real. He doesn't love you. He can't love anyone."

Callum watched the exchange with detached interest, making no move to defend himself.

"Love?" I repeated, pulling my hands away from Gideon. "Is that what matters to you now? Not the Monette name, or the merger with my family's shipping company, or the access to Asian markets my connections provide?"

"Those things don't matter without you," Gideon insisted, his eyes pleading. "I'll give up my inheritance if that's what it takes. I'll walk away from everything."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Callum stiffen slightly. That was interesting—the idea of Gideon renouncing his birthright clearly struck a nerve.

"I'm pregnant," I said suddenly, the words escaping before I'd fully decided to speak them.

The room went silent. Gideon stared at me, shock written across his features. Callum's expression remained unreadable, but I felt the energy shift around him, becoming more focused, more predatory.

"That's..." Gideon swallowed hard. "That's wonderful news. Our child—"

"Is it yours?" Callum interrupted, his voice deceptively casual. "Are you certain of that, son?"

Gideon's face contorted with rage. "You son of a bitch—"

"The child could be either of yours," I said calmly, though my heart was racing. "Or neither. I haven't opened the test results yet."

I walked to the coffee table and picked up the envelope, feeling both men's eyes follow my every movement. With deliberate slowness, I tore it open and pulled out the paper inside.

"Positive," I confirmed, scanning the report. "I am indeed pregnant."

Gideon stepped toward me, reaching for the paper. "Let me see the date of conception. That will tell us—"

"No," I pulled the report away. "This isn't about establishing paternity. Not yet." I turned to face them both. "This is about deciding what kind of world this child will be born into. And whether either of you deserves to be part of it."