Chapter 3 - The Broken Queen
Megan stood frozen in the rain, the screwdriver trembling in her white-knuckled grip.
"What did you say?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roaring storm.
"The photographs were fakes," I choked out, looking up at her from the mud, my hands held open in complete, unconditional surrender. "The bank transfers were forged by Gideon. The necklace was planted by Claire. And I was the biggest, blindest fool who ever lived."
A bitter, broken laugh escaped Megan’s cracked lips—a sound of pure agony that tore my heart to shreds.
"You're a year late, Rowan," she said, tears streaming down her hollow cheeks, mixing with the cold rain. "A year late. My babies almost froze to death in an unheated barn in December while you were buying Claire diamond bracelets at Tiffany's."
"I know," I wept openly, not rising from the dirt. "I know I don't deserve to breathe the same air as you. But please, Megan... look at the boys. They're shivering. Their lips are blue. Let me put them inside the heated car."
Noah let out a tiny, pitiful whimper, his small body shuddering against her collarbone. Lucas sneezed, his tiny chest heaving under the wet cloth.
Megan looked down at her sons, her maternal instinct overpowering the justified hatred burning in her soul.
She lowered the screwdriver, her shoulders sagging in absolute, bone-deep defeat. "Just the boys. If you try to take them from me, Rowan, I swear to God I will cut your throat while you sleep."
"I will give you the knife myself, Megan," I vowed, standing up slowly, careful not to make any sudden moves.
I stepped forward, unbuttoning my heavy cashmere overcoat, gently wrapping it around her and the two babies to shield them from the biting wind.
Her frame was terrifyingly light; I could feel the sharp ridges of her ribs through the wet denim. She had been starving herself so our sons could have infant formula.
I guided her to the passenger side of the SUV, lifting her into the warm leather seat, turning the climate control to maximum heat.
I took off my dry wool scarf, gently dabbing the rain from the boys' soft golden curls.
Noah opened his eyes, staring at me with solemn curiosity, reaching out a tiny, soft hand. His miniature fingers brushed against my thumb, curling tightly around my knuckle with surprising strength.
A ragged gasp tore from my chest. I buried my face against his tiny fingers, weeping silent tears of profound repentance.
"Where is Clara?" Megan whispered suddenly from the seat beside me, her voice trembling with a fragile, terrifying hope that made the air in the cabin freeze.
I lifted my head, meeting her gaze.
"She is alive, Megan," I said, my voice ringing with absolute certainty. "She didn't die in that clinic. Claire stole her."
Megan’s breath hitched in her throat. Her eyes dilated with such overwhelming, explosive shock that she grabbed my collar with both hands, pulling my face inches from hers.
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"My baby girl is alive?!" she screamed, her fingernails digging into my neck. "Claire took my Clara?!"
"Claire has her in the Franklin estate," I answered, my jaw tightening into iron. "And in thirty minutes, we are going to tear that house down to its foundations and bring our daughter home."
