Chapter 8 That Is My Mother's Grave

# Chapter 8: That Is My Mother's Grave

I woke to the steady beeping of hospital monitors and the muted sounds of a private room. Moonlight streamed through half-drawn blinds, casting silver patterns across the sterile floor. My hand instinctively moved to my stomach, relief washing over me when a nurse quickly assured me the baby was fine. "Just severe dehydration and stress," she explained. "Your body's sending you a warning."

After she left, I noticed a manila envelope on the bedside table. No markings, no return address. I opened it with trembling fingers and found a series of photographs inside. My breath caught as I flipped through them—Callum and me in various locations over the past three years. Some were innocent enough: business dinners, charity galas. Others were more intimate: his hand on the small of my back, lingering too long; my head tilted toward him, laughing at something he'd said.

The last photo made my blood run cold. A young woman, maybe twenty-five, with features startlingly similar to my own. She was laughing, head thrown back, wine glass in hand. Standing beside her was a younger Callum, looking at her with unmistakable hunger.

I flipped the photo over. Written in precise handwriting: "Like mother, like daughter. Do you know how she died?"

My hands shook so badly the photo fell to the floor. Before I could retrieve it, the door opened, and Gideon walked in. He looked terrible—unshaven, dark circles under his eyes, clothes rumpled as if he'd slept in them.

"You're awake," he said, relief evident in his voice. "I came as soon as I heard."

"Who told you I was here?" I asked, quickly tucking the envelope under my blanket.

"Hospital administrator. Father's on the board, remember?" He moved to the bedside, hesitating before taking my hand. "Are you... is the baby okay?"

I nodded, studying his face. Despite everything, there was genuine concern there. "The baby's fine. Just a warning from my body to slow down."

"And my father?" Gideon's voice hardened. "Where is he?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I just woke up."

Gideon sat in the visitor's chair, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "I should have been here. I'm your husband, I should have been the one they called."

I said nothing, my mind still reeling from the photos. That woman—could she really be my mother? My parents had died in a car accident when I was three; I'd been raised by my aunt, who rarely spoke of her sister. All I had were a few faded photographs and borrowed memories.

"Gideon," I said carefully, "what do you know about my mother?"

He looked surprised by the question. "Your mother? Not much. She died when you were young, right? Car accident with your father."

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"Yes, but... did your father ever mention her? Did he know her?"

Gideon frowned. "Why would he? They moved in completely different circles."

I swallowed hard. "Just something Vivienne said. It's nothing."

His eyes narrowed. "You saw Vivienne? When?"

"She was here earlier. She seemed to think..." I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "She implied your father and I have been involved for years."

Gideon's laugh was bitter. "Of course she did. She's been paranoid about his infidelity for decades." He squeezed my hand. "Don't let her get to you. She's always looked for ways to hurt him."

A nurse appeared with medication, and by the time she left, Gideon had moved on to discussing our future—how he wanted to make things right, how we could start fresh once the baby was born. I nodded at appropriate intervals, but my mind was elsewhere, on the woman in the photograph and the cryptic message.

After Gideon finally left, promising to return in the morning, I called the one person who might have answers. My aunt picked up on the third ring, her voice groggy with sleep.

"It's me," I said. "I need to ask you about my mother."

A long pause followed. "It's two in the morning, Clarette."

"I know. I'm sorry. But this is important." I took a deep breath. "Did my mother ever know Callum Monette?"

The silence that followed was answer enough.

"Aunt Elise, please. I need to know the truth."

She sighed heavily. "Why are you asking about this now?"

"Because I'm married to his son, and I think he's been lying to me."

Another long pause. "Your mother and Callum Monette had a... connection. Before she met your father. It was brief but intense."

My heart raced. "Did my father know?"

"Yes. It was why they left New York. Your father couldn't stand being in the same social circles as Callum anymore." She hesitated. "Clarette, there's something else you should know—"

But at that moment, the door opened, and Callum himself walked in. I quickly ended the call, promising to call back.

Callum looked impeccable as always, no sign of the night's earlier chaos. He carried a small bouquet of white peonies—my favorite. Setting them on the nightstand, he studied me with those penetrating eyes.

"You look better," he observed. "The color's back in your cheeks."

"Who was she?" I asked without preamble, pulling out the photograph. "This woman with you. She looks like me."

Callum's expression didn't change, but I caught the slight tensing of his shoulders. He took the photo, examining it for a long moment.

"Where did you get this?"

"It was here when I woke up. Along with others." I held his gaze steadily. "Is that my mother?"

He returned the photo, his movements deliberate. "Yes. That's Elaine."

"You knew her."

"Yes."

"Were you lovers?"

His eyes never left mine. "Briefly. Before she met your father."

I laughed, the sound hollow. "So Vivienne was right. You've been planning this—planning me—for decades."

"Don't be absurd," he snapped, the first crack in his composure. "I didn't know who you were when Gideon introduced us."

"But you recognized the resemblance," I pressed. "You must have. Everyone says I look just like her."

Callum moved to the window, staring out at the city lights. "I recognized something in you that reminded me of her, yes. Not just physical appearance. A quality. A fire."

"And that's why you pursued me? Because I reminded you of a woman you once wanted?"

He turned back to me, expression softening slightly. "I pursued you because you are extraordinary in your own right, Clarette. Your resemblance to Elaine was... a complication I didn't anticipate."

"A complication," I repeated flatly. "Is that what my mother was to you?"

Callum's laugh held no humor. "Your mother was the only woman who ever walked away from me. She chose your father—a nobody academic with no fortune, no connections—over everything I offered her."

The realization hit me like a physical blow. "That's what this is about. You couldn't have her, so you decided to have her daughter instead."

He moved to the bedside, his presence overwhelming in the small room. "You understand nothing. Your mother was the one thing in my life I truly wanted and couldn't possess. When I met you, I saw her strength, her ambition—but directed differently. You're not a replacement, Clarette. You're a revelation."

His words washed over me, seductive and terrifying. I wanted to believe him, wanted to think this twisted attraction between us was something real, not just his decades-old obsession finding a new target.

"I want to see her grave," I said suddenly. "My mother's grave."

Callum's eyebrows rose slightly. "Now? You're in the hospital."

"Tomorrow. I'm being discharged in the morning." I met his gaze unflinchingly. "Take me to her grave, Callum. If you want any future with me, take me there and tell me everything."

After a moment, he nodded. "As you wish."

As he left, I clutched the photograph, studying the woman who had given me life. What secrets had died with her? And why, after all these years, did I feel like she was trying to warn me from beyond the grave?