Chapter 4 - The Broken Promise
Florence’s face drained of color. "He's back," she whispered frantically. "He forgot his laptop charger—he texted me five minutes ago!"
"Act natural," I whispered back, stepping out of the nursery into the hallway just as the front door unlocked.
Brandon walked in, his suit jacket draped over one arm. When his eyes landed on me standing in the foyer alongside his mother, a flash of irritation flickered across his face before he masked it with a smooth, practice-honed smile.
"Lauren? What are you doing home?" he asked, stepping forward to kiss my cheek.
I forced myself not to recoil, enduring the cold touch of his lips. "Finished my presentations early. Thought I’d come home and relieve Florence."
"That's sweet," Brandon said, though his eyes narrowed suspiciously. He looked between Florence and me, sensing the heavy atmosphere in the room. "Is everything okay? You both look like you’ve seen a ghost."
"We were just discussing Hannah's sleep schedule," Florence stammered out, moving toward the kitchen. "I'll go start dinner."
"No need, Mom," Brandon said, his tone carrying an edge that made it sound less like a courtesy and more like an order. "Why don't you take the evening off? Go back to your apartment. Lauren and I can handle things from here."
Florence hesitated, casting a desperate glance at me.
"It's okay, Florence," I said gently, offering her a nod of reassurance. "Go get some rest. We'll be fine."
Once Florence had gathered her belongings and left, an oppressive silence settled over the house. Brandon set his briefcase on the kitchen counter and poured himself a glass of scotch.
"You seem distant, Lauren," he observed, leaning against the island, taking a slow sip. "Ever since that doctor's appointment this morning, you've been acting strangely."
"Dr. Lawson gave me a lot to think about," I said, walking over to stand opposite him. "He thinks Hannah's stress levels are unusually high. He mentioned that infants form deep emotional associations very early on."
Brandon snorted, setting his glass down with a heavy thud. "Dr. Lawson is a pediatrician, not a baby psychologist. Hannah is three months old. She doesn't have complex psychological complexes, Lauren. She has a mother who is overthinking every little breath she takes."
"Is that why she screams every time you touch her, Brandon?"
The question hung in the air like a blade.
Brandon’s posture stiffened. The easygoing, charm-laden husband persona slipped, revealing the cold, calculating man underneath. "What are you implying?"
"I’m not implying anything. I’m asking a direct question," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "She doesn't scream with me. She doesn't scream with Florence. But when you walk into the room, her body goes rigid with fear. Why?"
Brandon took a step toward me, towering over me. "I work fourteen hours a day to provide for this family, Lauren! I paid for this house! I pay for your mother-in-law's living expenses! And you stand there accusing me of... what, exactly? Being a bad father?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then stop acting like a paranoid lunatic!" he yelled, his voice cracking like thunder through the quiet house.
From the nursery down the hall, Hannah immediately burst into a frantic, terrified wail.
Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. "Look at what you're doing. You're setting her off with your drama." He turned toward the hallway. "I'll go calm her down."
"No!" I snapped, stepping into his path. "Don't touch her."
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Brandon stopped. His eyes darkened to a shade of pitch I had never seen in all our six years together. "She is my daughter, Lauren. You do not tell me whether I can touch my own daughter."
He pushed past me toward the nursery. My heart hammered against my ribs as I rushed after him, determined to protect my baby at any cost.
