“Tired,” Karen scoffed, cutting into her beef. “You’ve been unemployed for a year, Clara. What exactly are you tired from? Sitting on the couch?”
“I’m growing two people, Karen,” I said, a spark of defiance flaring in my chest.
“Well, try to be useful while you do it,” Ethan muttered. “Get the wine.”
I turned back toward the sidebar. As I reached for the heavy bottle, a sharp, tearing pain ripped through my lower abdomen. It felt like lightning striking my spine.
I gasped, dropping the bottle. It didn’t break, but it thudded heavily onto the table. I clutched the edge of the sidebar, my knuckles turning white.
Water pooled on the expensive Persian rug beneath me.
“Ethan,” I gasped, the room spinning. “It’s time.”
The room went silent. Ethan looked at the rug. Then he looked at me. There was no panic in his eyes. No excitement. Only pure, unadulterated annoyance.
“Now?” he groaned, throwing his napkin on the table. “Are you serious? Isabella was just about to tell us about her yacht in Monaco.”
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