Martin read only the first few lines before shutting the folder.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“I spent five years being called barren by a man who refused to read one page.”
“I never used that word.”
“You used worse ones.”
The doctor looked away, giving us a privacy the small room could not truly provide.
Martin lowered his voice.
“You will not repeat any of this.”
It sounded exactly like his warning at the gala.
Don’t embarrass me tonight.
I had obeyed.
I had not raised my voice beneath the chandeliers.
I had not interrupted his announcement or confronted Clara in front of the donors.
I had smiled, thanked the senator’s wife and let Martin display his cruelty without assistance.
Now he wanted silence again.
This time, silence belonged to me.
“I don’t need to repeat what you told two hundred people yourself,” I said.
Martin’s phone was already in his hand.
He called Clara.
She answered before the second ring.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
Her voice was faint but clear in the quiet room.
“At home.
What’s wrong?”
“Who is the father?”
The doctor stood.
“Mr.
Voss, this conversation should not take place here.”
Martin raised a hand without looking at him.
Clara went silent.
Martin’s voice sharpened.
“I asked you a question.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The boys.
Who is their father?”
Another pause.
Then Clara said, “You are.”
Martin looked at the report again.
“I can’t be.”
The words changed him as soon as he spoke them.
His shoulders dropped.
His anger faltered, exposing something smaller beneath it.
Fear.
Clara’s voice tightened.
“Where is this coming from?”
“My medical records.”
“What medical records?”
“The fertility clinic says I cannot father children.”
She inhaled sharply.
I watched Martin hear it.
Not a denial.
Not surprise at the accusation.
Recognition.
“You knew,” he whispered.
“No.”
“You knew there was a possibility.”
