The following morning, the VIP maternity suite at Lennox Hill smelled of expensive floral arrangements and antiseptic. At precisely nine o’clock, Julian’s mother, Eleanor, breezed into the room. She carried a designer insulated thermos and wore a smile that was perfectly appropriate, highly attentive, and entirely devoid of genuine warmth.
“Oh, Clare, darling, you’ve labored so hard,” she cooed, placing the thermos on the nightstand. She peered into the bassinet for exactly three seconds. “Aw. She’s quite pretty. A girl is nice, too. They’re so caring when we get old.”
She sat down, pouring a bowl of rich chicken broth. “Julian briefed me on everything,” she began, cutting to the chase with the casual cadence of someone discussing the weather. “Honestly, we weren’t intentionally deceiving you. We merely feared the stress would complicate your pregnancy. You understand, the Vance family hasn’t produced a male heir in three generations.”
