THE WIFE HE BURIED IN SILENCE

Chapter Four: Stepsister

Claire stood frozen in the middle of the beautiful room, and the whole world seemed to fall out from under her feet.

"Stepsister," she repeated, in a whisper.

"Yes." Victoria beamed, so happy, so blind to the ice spreading across her daughter's face. "Isn't it wonderful? You already know each other? Casandra has been abroad for years. And this is her fiancé, Xander Raymond, of the Raymond Group. Such a fine young man."

Claire looked at Xander. Xander looked back at her, and for the first time all day, something cracked in his cold mask. His eyes moved from Claire to Victoria and back, and a shadow of something, unease, or maybe realization, passed over him.

He had not known either.

Fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor. Her husband and her mother now stood on the same side of a line, and Claire was on the outside of it, alone, as she had always been.

"Fine young man," Claire echoed, and she laughed, a small ragged sound. "He hasn't even divorced his wife yet, and he's already picking out emeralds for his fiancée. Bold, isn't he?"

Victoria blinked, confused. "Divorced? Claire, what are you talking about? Xander isn't married."

The room went very still.

Claire's eyes locked on Xander's. "Isn't he?" she said softly. "Go on, Mr. Raymond. Tell my mother who I am. Tell her whose name is on your marriage certificate."

Casandra's smile faltered for just a second. Xander's jaw tightened.

But he said nothing. He simply looked away, out the tall window, as though Claire were not even there. As though she were a ghost speaking in an empty room.

That silence was the loudest answer of all.

Something in Claire's stomach heaved. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and turned, walking fast down the hall, following a maid's pointing finger to the washroom, locking the door behind her just in time.

She had eaten almost nothing all day. What came up was thin and bitter and streaked with red, and she gripped the cold edge of the sink, staring down at the crimson in the white bowl, and the tears came at last, hot and silent.

So this was how it ended. Not with a fight. Not with justice. Just a dying woman throwing up blood in a stranger's bathroom while the man she once loved refused to even say her name.

A soft knock came at the door.

"Claire? Sweetheart, are you all right?" Victoria's worried voice.

Claire splashed water on her face, wiped her mouth, and forced her breathing to slow. When she opened the door her mother's face was tight with concern.

"You're pale. Are you ill?"

"I'm fine." Claire's voice was flat. "Something I ate. Or maybe just the company." She stepped past her mother, back toward the living room, where Xander now held one of the babies against his chest, murmuring something soft, rocking it with an ease that made Claire's ruined heart twist.

He had never once looked at her that gently. Not in a year.

The baby in his arms began to fuss, then to cry, a thin wail that grew louder no matter how he rocked. A maid rushed for a bottle. Casandra reached out, but the child only screamed harder.

And Claire, without knowing why, crossed the room and lifted the crying baby from Xander's arms.

He let her. That was the strange thing. He let her take the child.

And the baby stopped crying at once.

The tiny face crumpled into a wet smile. A little hand reached up and grabbed the fuzzy button on Claire's collar. The baby cooed, gurgled, looked up at her with wide bright eyes, and babbled something soft that sounded almost like a name.

For one endless moment, the whole room stared.

Claire looked down at the small warm weight in her arms, at the little fingers curled around hers, and a grief so large it had no bottom opened up inside her. She had wanted this once. A child. A family. A gentle man who came home. She had wanted it so badly she had given up medical school and her violin and every dream she ever owned, and it had all turned to ash in her hands.

"Give him back," Casandra said sharply, all sweetness gone. "You'll drop him."

Claire placed the baby carefully into the maid's arms. Her hands were shaking now, and she did not try to hide it.

"He's beautiful," she said quietly. "You should take good care of him." She looked up, straight at Xander. "Both of you."

Then she turned to leave.

"Claire." Xander's voice, low, rough. He took a step toward her. "You're sick. You threw up. I heard the maid. What is wrong with you? Answer me."

She stopped at the door, one hand on the frame to hold herself up.

"You know what's funny?" she said, not turning around. "For three years, you never once asked me that question when it could have mattered." Her voice was so calm it frightened even her. "Nine o'clock, Mr. Raymond. City hall. Tomorrow. If your surgeon can spare you from playing father."

She walked out into the rain.

She did not make it far. Half a block down the wet road, the black spots swallowed her vision whole, the pain in her chest bloomed like fire, and Claire Williams crumpled onto the cold pavement in the pouring rain, her ruined ring rolling from her open hand into the gutter.

The last thing she heard, far away and fading, was the screech of tires, and a man's voice shouting her name.