Chapter 2 - The Gift Table Conspiracy
The sprawling mahogany dining table groaned under the weight of imported silver, crystal, and lavishly wrapped baby gifts. Around it, thirty members of Julian’s extended family stood in an uncomfortable semicircle, their champagne flutes half-raised, their expressions a mix of voyeuristic curiosity and calculated indifference. Nobody met Clara’s eyes. When a cousin from the country stepped forward with an instinctive urge to offer a hand, Elena’s sharp glare froze him in his tracks.
Clara, her hands raw from the rough Persian carpet, dragged herself inch by agonizing inch across the floor. The quadruplet belly swung heavily with every movement, pressing against her diaphragm until she felt as though she were drowning in dry air. Each shift of her right foot sent jagged bolts of agony up her calf, tearing the stitches of the bruised ligament open further.
"Faster, Clara. The lighting by the floral arch is shifting," Elena commanded, positioning herself like a general directing a retreat.
Julian stood by the fireplace, nursing a glass of scotch. His face was a mask of cold annoyance. When Clara finally reached the designated spot beneath the glaring studio lights, she couldn't pull herself up. Her arms trembled violently, the sheer physical exhaustion of carrying four children combining with the shock of trauma to drain her of all strength. She collapsed against the side of the gift table, her cheek resting against the dust ruffle.
"I can't stand," Clara whispered into the fabric. "Please... just give me the wheelchair."
"The wheelchair is gone," Julian said smoothly, stepping closer. "And it’s staying gone until you apologize to my mother and my colleagues for this disgusting display."
"Where is it?" Clara asked, her vision blurring at the edges.
"Hidden where you won't throw another one of your tantrums," Julian replied, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You’ve made me a laughingstock. Diana has been running my life better than you’ve run this household for months. Apologize, or you stay on the floor until the party ends."
Clara looked up, her gaze scanning the room. Her hospital bag—the one containing her compression stockings, her nursing pads, and the emergency contact numbers for her high-risk obstetrics team—was clutched tightly in Diana’s arms. Diana was smiling, whispering something into Julian’s ear that made him chuckle softly.
"You're a monster," Clara breathed.
"I am a man at the end of his tether," Julian corrected. He turned to the crowd of relatives, raising his voice so every single person could hear. "Ladies and gentlemen, my wife has unfortunately suffered a complete psychological break due to the prenatal hormones. She insists on lying on the floor. Please, ignore her and continue with the toasts. The photographer is ready."
The camera flashes began to pop. Click. Click. Click.
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In the blinding light of the strobes, Clara looked like a broken doll cast aside at a high-society banquet. The blood from her ankle had now formed a noticeable puddle on the white wool, but the relatives simply stepped around it, raising their glasses to toast Julian’s successful career and the upcoming birth of the heirs.
Elena raised her glass high. "To the future of the family. Unencumbered by weakness."
