Chapter 4
The Riverstone Grill sat perched on a cliffside overlooking the roaring river, an upscale establishment where local executives flaunted their trophies—both cars and companions.
The maître d' guided Owen and me toward a secluded booth bathed in low amber lighting. Damon and Claire were already seated side by side on the banquette.
Claire wore a stunning emerald silk dress that hugged her curves, her makeup pristine, her hair cascading in loose waves. Across her ring finger sat the diamond Owen had bought her, glittering brilliantly. But the moment her eyes met mine, the color completely drained from her cheeks.
Damon, on the other hand, was the picture of corporate smugness. Dressed in a tailored charcoal blazer, he rose smoothly, flashing a dazzling smile.
"There's my gorgeous mama," he said, stepping out to kiss my cheek. His lips felt like ice against my skin. "Hey, Owen. Glad you could make it on short notice."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Owen replied. His voice was level, almost robotic, but beneath the table, his fists were clenched so hard the tendons bulged.
Owen sat on the outside, and I slid in next to him, placing us directly across from our partners.
Claire’s hands trembled slightly as she smoothed her napkin over her lap. "Emily... you look radiant. How are you feeling after this morning? Damon told me you felt faint after the clinic."
"Oh, just a temporary lack of oxygen," I said, picking up the water goblet and swirling the lemon wedge. "You know how it is. Sometimes the air in a room suddenly feels suffocating. Like someone’s sucking all the air right out of your own house."
Claire swallowed hard, taking a rapid gulp of her Pinot Noir. "Pregnancy must be so difficult. We really need to pamper you."
"Speaking of pampering," Damon chimed in, tossing his platinum credit card onto the leather bill folder beside him. "Order whatever you want tonight. We’re celebrating. Montclair Acquisitions closed a massive commercial round today."
Owen leaned forward, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. "Montclair? That’s an interesting name, Damon. Isn't that an old family name of yours, Claire?"
Claire choked on her wine, coughing into her linen napkin.
Damon didn't flinch. He laughed smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. "Just a coincidence, Owen. We generate placeholder names from a regional algorithm. Nothing sentimental about private equity."
"Of course," Owen murmured, smiling thinly. "Nothing sentimental at all. Just cold, ruthless efficiency."
The waiter arrived, taking our orders. Throughout the appetizer course, Damon held court, bragging about his portfolio, his firm's growth, and his plans to take a two-month sabbatical after our daughter was born.
"I want to make sure Emily has total peace of mind," Damon said, reaching across the table to lay his palm over my hand. "No stress, no financial worries. Just pure focus on our little girl."
I looked down at his hand, then lifted my eyes to meet Claire’s terrified gaze.
"You're so thoughtful, Damon," I said softly. "You always think of everything. In fact, Claire, I was thinking about your wedding earlier today."
Claire froze with her fork halfway to her mouth. "My... my wedding?"
"Yes," I said pleasantly. "You remember that gorgeous champagne lace camisole you bought for your honeymoon? The one with the little blue charm?"
The glass of water in Claire's hand slipped, splashing across the bread basket.
"Oh! God, I'm so clumsy," Claire gasped, grabbing napkins and frantically dabbing at the mess.
Damon’s eyes darted between Claire and me, a sharp flicker of suspicion narrowing his gaze. "What camisole, Emily?"
"Oh, just something Claire showed me months ago," I said, tilting my head innocently. "She said she was saving it for an unforgettable occasion. I was just wondering if she ever found the right time to wear it."
Claire looked like she was about to vomit right onto the tablecloth. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes begging me for mercy.
"I... I haven't worn it yet," Claire whispered hoarsely. "It's... still in my drawer."
"Funny," I said, leaning in closer, the sweetness vanishing from my tone. "Because I found one that looked identical crumpled underneath the bench at the foot of our bed this morning. Right next to where Damon spilled his coffee."
The table descended into dead, suffocating silence.
The ambient chatter of the restaurant, the clinking of silverware, the jazz music overhead—everything seemed to fade into a hollow hum.
Damon’s smile vanished completely. The charm evaporated from his face, replaced by a dark, calculating stillness. He leaned back against the leather booth, his eyes boring into mine.
"Emily," Damon said, his voice dropping into a low, menacing whisper. "Are you making accusations at a public dinner table?"
"Accusations?" Owen interrupted, pulling a manila folder from his leather briefcase and setting it deliberately in the center of the table, right between the butter dish and the bread. "No, Damon. Emily doesn't make accusations. Neither do I. We prefer verified public records."
Damon looked at the folder, then at Owen. "What is that?"
"Open it," Owen said, his eyes blazing with fury. "Open it and look at what you and my fiancée signed two weeks ago while Emily was resting in bed with morning sickness."
Damon didn't reach for the folder. Instead, his hand slid under the edge of the table.
Suddenly, Damon’s personal phone lit up on the tabletop.
The caller ID displayed: **Dr. Harrison – Ob/Gyn Clinic.**
Damon stared at the phone. A dark, twisted smirk slowly returned to the corners of his mouth. He looked at me, not with panic, but with a terrifying, predatory calm.
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"You think you’re so clever, Emily," Damon whispered, picking up the buzzing phone. "You think you caught us. But you have no idea what that clinic appointment this morning was actually about, do you?"
***
