MARGARET’S POV
I have lived long enough to know this truth, evil rarely announces itself with horns and fire. It smiles, It wears silk, It waits patiently for you to turn your back.
Alex stands before me, tall and rigid, but I see past the posture. I see the boy I raised after his father died, the boy who learned too early that strength meant silence. His jaw is clenched so tightly that the muscle there twitches, and his eyes, those sharp Robinson eyes, are burning with something far more dangerous than anger.
Guilt.
“Grandmother,” he says, his voice low, controlled in the way men learn when they are terrified of losing control altogether. “The doctors ran more tests.”
My heart tightens. I gesture to the chair opposite mine. “Sit.”
He doesn’t. “They found abortion-inducing medication
