Chapter 12 Daddy Proposed; Did I Accept?

# Chapter 12: Daddy Proposed; Did I Accept?

For three days, I barely left my mother's side. Valencia—as she preferred to be called now—drifted between lucidity and confusion, sometimes recognizing me instantly, other times staring at me as if I were a stranger. The caretaker, Maria, explained that years of untreated trauma and anxiety had taken their toll, leaving her with a fragmented mind that struggled to maintain its grip on reality.

During her clear moments, Valencia filled in pieces of the puzzle that had been my life. She confirmed what I already knew—that I was Vincent Monette's biological daughter, conceived during a brief affair while she was separated from Callum.

"Vincent was brilliant," she told me, her eyes distant with memory. "Charismatic in a way Callum could never be. But unstable. When he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, Callum used it against him, gradually pushing him out of the company they'd built together."

"And when you discovered you were pregnant?" I prompted.

"I knew immediately whose child you were. Vincent had distinctive genetic markers—heterochromia, for one." She reached out, touching the corner of my right eye, where a sliver of amber interrupted the blue. "Callum knew too, the moment he saw you. He was... pleased."

"Pleased?" I couldn't hide my surprise. "That his wife was carrying his brother's child?"

Valencia's laugh was bitter. "Callum had been trying to create the perfect heir for years. In his mind, combining the Monette brilliance with my family's political connections was the ideal formula. When I couldn't conceive with him, he began to consider... alternatives."

A chill ran through me. "Are you saying he orchestrated your affair with Vincent?"

"Not directly. But he created the circumstances, pushed us together at every opportunity." Her hands trembled slightly as she poured herself tea. "When I realized what he was doing—using me as a broodmare for his dynasty—I ran. I knew if he raised you, he would shape you into his perfect creation. His living legacy."

The words echoed Callum's own. His living legacy. The thought made me instinctively place a hand over my stomach, where his grandchild grew.

Valencia noticed the gesture, her eyes sharpening. "You're pregnant."

I nodded, unable to speak.

"Gideon's?" she asked.

"I don't know," I admitted. "It could be Gideon's. Or it could be Callum's."

Her teacup clattered against the saucer. "No," she whispered. "Tell me you haven't."

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"It's complicated," I said, the understatement of the century.

"There's nothing complicated about it!" Her voice rose, color flooding her pale cheeks. "He's seduced you just as he did me. Made you feel special, chosen. But you're nothing but a vessel to him—a means to continue his bloodline, his legacy."

Her words hit with painful accuracy. Hadn't Callum himself all but admitted as much? His obsession with the Monette genetic brilliance, his manipulation to position me within the family, his fixation on the child I carried—it all pointed to a man obsessed with legacy above all else.

And yet...

"There's more between us," I said quietly, unsure if I was trying to convince her or myself. "Something neither of us expected."

Valencia's laugh was hollow. "Love? Is that what you think you feel for him? What you think he feels for you?"

"I don't know what to call it."

"I do." She leaned forward, suddenly fierce. "Obsession. Control. The same poison that destroyed me, that drove Vincent to madness, that has corrupted the Monette name for generations."

A soft chime from my phone interrupted us. A text from Callum: "Day six. One more day until I join you. Updates?"

I put the phone away without responding, but Valencia had seen the name on the screen. Her expression hardened.

"He's coming here, isn't he?"

"Not yet," I assured her. "And not if you don't want to see him."

She was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the vineyard. "Perhaps it's time," she said finally. "After thirty years of running, perhaps it's time to face him."

"Are you sure?"

She turned back to me, and in her eyes I saw a clarity, a determination that transcended her usual fragility. "He took everything from me—my identity, my life, nearly my child. I won't let him take you too."

That night, I finally called Callum.

"She's alive," I said without preamble when he answered. "And she's willing to see you."

A long pause followed. "How is she?"

"Damaged," I replied honestly. "Years of fear and isolation have taken their toll. But she remembers everything, Callum. Everything you did."

"I've done many things, Clarette. Some you know, many you don't."

"She says you orchestrated her affair with Vincent. That you wanted her to bear his child because you couldn't father one yourself."

Another pause, longer this time. "A simplified version of a complex situation."

"Is it true?" I pressed.

"Partially," he admitted. "Vincent and I both carried a genetic marker for an inherited condition—one that made conception difficult. His manifestation was less severe than mine. When medical interventions failed, I... considered alternatives."

"You pimped out your wife to your brother."

His sigh was audible. "Such crude terminology for a sophisticated arrangement."

"There's nothing sophisticated about treating women like breeding stock," I snapped.

"Says the woman carrying my grandchild," he countered smoothly. "Tell me, Clarette, how is your pregnancy progressing? Any complications since leaving New York?"

The abrupt change of subject caught me off guard. "The pregnancy is fine. Don't change the subject."

"I'm not. Everything is connected—your mother, your child, our future. Which brings me to my next point: I'll be arriving tomorrow, not alone, but with a proposal that will resolve this situation to everyone's benefit."

Alarm bells rang in my head. "What kind of proposal?"

"One that legitimizes everything—your position in the company, your child's inheritance, even your mother's return from the dead. A clean slate for the Monette family."

"And what do you want in return?"

I could almost hear his smile through the phone. "You already know, Clarette. I want what I've always wanted. You."

---

The next day, Callum arrived as promised, but not in the private jet I'd expected. Instead, a procession of black SUVs wound up the hillside to Villa Moor, carrying not just Callum but a retinue of attorneys, PR specialists, and what appeared to be a personal physician.

I met them in the courtyard, arms crossed defensively. Callum emerged from the lead vehicle, immaculate as always in a light linen suit that somehow hadn't creased during the journey. His eyes found mine immediately, and despite everything, that familiar electricity crackled between us.

"Quite the entourage," I observed coolly. "I wasn't aware we were having a corporate retreat."

"This is a delicate situation requiring expert handling," he replied, approaching me. His voice dropped, meant for my ears only. "You look beautiful. Italy agrees with you."

I stepped back, maintaining distance. "My mother is waiting in the garden. She's having a good day, but that could change if she feels overwhelmed."

Callum nodded, dismissing his team with a gesture. "Just you and me, then. For now."

As we walked through the villa toward the garden, I could feel his eyes on me, assessing, calculating. When we reached the French doors leading outside, I paused.

"Whatever you're planning, Callum, remember that she's fragile. If you hurt her—"

"I have no intention of hurting Vivienne," he interrupted softly. "Quite the contrary."

The garden was Valencia's pride—a riot of Tuscan flowers surrounding a stone patio where she sat waiting, straight-backed in her wheelchair, looking more regal than fragile in a simple blue dress. When Callum stepped into view, her expression remained perfectly composed.

"Hello, Callum," she said, her voice steadier than I'd heard it yet. "It's been a long time."

He approached slowly, as one might a skittish animal. "Thirty years, four months, and sixteen days. But who's counting?"

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Still precise as ever."

"And you're still beautiful," he replied, taking the seat across from her. "Despite your best efforts to disappear."

"I did what was necessary to protect my child."

"Our child," he corrected softly. "Whatever her biological origins, she was ours."

I watched from the doorway, feeling like an intruder in this reunion three decades in the making. The tension between them was palpable, but so was something else—a familiarity, a connection that even time and betrayal hadn't fully severed.

"Why have you come, Callum?" Valencia asked finally. "To drag me back? To punish me for defying you all those years ago?"

"I've come to make things right," he said, reaching into his jacket to withdraw a small box.

My breath caught as he opened it, revealing a black diamond ring—the same one he'd sent to my apartment in New York.

"I've come," he continued, his eyes finding mine over Valencia's shoulder, "to ask your daughter to be my wife."