At my request, the nurses had quietly removed the extravagant floral displays sent by colleagues from the Attorney General’s Office and several federal associates.
I had worked hard to maintain the illusion of being a simple work-from-home freelancer around my husband’s family. It was safer that way.
Beside me, my twins—Noah and Nora—slept peacefully. The emergency surgery had been agonizing, but holding them erased every ounce of pain.
Then the door slammed open.
Margaret Whitmore entered in a cloud of designer perfume and entitlement. Her eyes swept across the room with obvious contempt.
“A private suite?” she scoffed, tapping the hospital bed with the tip of her shoe. A sharp wave of pain tore through my abdomen. “My son works himself to exhaustion so you can lounge around in silk bedding? You have no shame.”
She tossed the papers onto my tray table.
