Chapter 3My Unborn Son Told Me Everything

“Isabella is pregnant,” Dr. Miller announced.

Isabella let out a choked sob, burying her face in her hands. Marcus pulled her into his arms, his voice cracking. “We’re having a baby. A pureblood Sinclair heir.”

Penelope stood up, her face livid. “I thought you were ‘childless by choice,’ Isabella! How convenient that your dead womb suddenly conceives the moment Nora does.”

Isabella looked up, her eyes watery and innocent. “We weren't trying, Penelope. But if the dark mother grants a miracle, who are we to turn it away?”

I watched her performance, my human stomach churning for a very different reason.

Over the next week, Isabella became the queen of the manor. She demanded the kitchens be restructured because the smell of my cooked human food "triggered her." She claimed that my evening walks by the lake disturbed her heightened senses. Finally, she sent the estate manager to my door with a set of heavy iron keys.

“Nora,” she told me, standing in the grand foyer. “The doctor says I’m extremely high-risk. I need absolute silence. Your room is too close to the stairs, and the sound of your human heartbeat at night is giving me palpitations. I’ve had the West Wing prepared for you.”

The West Wing. It was the oldest part of the estate—drafty, damp, heavily shielded from the sun, and completely isolated. It sat directly downwind from the pig farm.

Ethan slammed the keys onto the marble table, his fangs descending. “Nora is carrying my child too! You don’t get to exile her because you’ve got a headache.”

Marcus stepped forward, his eyes flashing red. “Isabella is carrying the eldest son’s pureblood child. Her comfort is the priority.”

Isabella began to cry on cue. “Ethan, please. I’m just so sensitive right now. I don’t want to cause trouble. Maybe I should just leave. Maybe I should just… give up on this miracle so everyone can be happy.”

Lord Arthur stepped into the room. He hated clan squabbles, but he loved the idea of a pureblood heir even more. He looked at me, then at Isabella’s tear-streaked immortal face.

“Nora,” Arthur said, his voice echoing with centuries of authority. “Move to the West Wing. Just until Isabella’s first trimester is stable.”

Ethan started to protest, his aura flaring darkly, but I caught his cold arm and shook my head.

Let her have the main house, I thought. The higher she climbs, the further she has to fall.

One week later, Isabella went in for her first detailed magical ultrasound. She insisted the entire clan be present in the private clinic wing of the manor. “I’m so nervous,” she whispered. “I need my coven here for support.”

I sat in the corner, quiet as a shadow.

The enchanted monitor flickered to life. Dr. Miller was smiling as he moved the crystal wand over Isabella’s stomach. But as the mystical image materialized, his smile died. He froze, his brow furrowing as he stared at the screen.

“What is it?” Marcus demanded.

Miller didn't answer. He adjusted the magical frequencies, his pale hands shaking. He tried to tilt the screen away, but Arthur was already standing.

“Move,” Arthur commanded.

He looked at the monitor. And then, the little color that existed drained from the ancient vampire’s face.