Chapter 13 - THE FUNERAL OF A LIVING MOTHERMargaret posted bail.

I found out from a news alert.

WENTWORTH MATRIARCH RELEASED PENDING HEARING.

Matriarch.

The word made her sound noble.

Like a woman seated at the head of a Thanksgiving table, not someone who had dragged my pregnant wife by the hair.

Her attorney gave a statement outside the courthouse.

“My client is a devoted mother and grandmother-to-be who has been falsely accused during a deeply emotional family conflict.”

Grandmother-to-be.

Irene saw the clip before I could stop it.

Her face went blank.

Not scared.

Blank.

That frightened me more.

“She still thinks the baby belongs to her,” Irene said.

“She will never meet this child.”

Irene turned the screen off.

“You need to say that publicly.”

“I will.”

“No,” she said. “Not as a husband defending his wife. As a son rejecting his mother.”

The next morning, I stood before cameras outside Wentworth Holdings.

Samuel advised me to keep it short.

The crisis team advised me to sound calm.

Every instinct advised me to burn the world down.

I chose something colder.

“My wife, Irene Wentworth, was attacked in our home while pregnant. Evidence has been turned over to law enforcement. I have full confidence in the investigation.”

Cameras clicked.

I continued.

“Margaret Wentworth and Carla Wentworth are not welcome near my wife, my child, my home, or any company property. They do not speak for me. They do not speak for my family. And from this moment forward, I do not recognize private cruelty as a family matter.”

A reporter shouted, “Are you disowning your mother?”

I looked directly into the cameras.

“My mother made that decision when she put her hands on my wife.”

By evening, the clip had spread everywhere.

Some people called me heartless.

Some called me controlled by Irene.

Some said family should forgive.

Those people had never seen my wife unconscious on the floor.

That night, Margaret called from an unlisted number.

I answered because Detective Harris wanted every contact documented.

“You embarrassed me,” she hissed.

“You did that yourself.”

“You think this makes you strong? Cutting off your mother?”

“No,” I said. “Protecting my wife does.”

“She will leave you someday,” Margaret whispered. “Women like Irene always do. And when she does, do not come crawling back.”

I looked across the room.

Irene was asleep on the couch, one hand resting over our child.

“I buried you already,” I said.

Margaret went silent.

“What?”

“You’re alive,” I said. “But the mother I thought I had died in that bedroom.”

Her breath shook.

For one second, I heard something almost human.

Then she whispered, “Then I have nothing left to lose.”

The line went dead.

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I saved the recording.

And doubled security before midnight.