Edna’s every word dripped with agony.
As luck would have it, the door to the hospital room was wide open.
People passing in the hallway—patients, visitors, nurses—couldn’t help but pause and gawk.
“Would you look at that,” someone muttered, unable to hide their fascination. “That old man must be pushing eighty, already halfway in the grave, and he’s still arguing with his son. Doesn’t he realize if he stirs up trouble, there won’t be anyone left to take care of him?”
“Rich families, huh? Who knows what kind of skeletons they’ve got in their closets. Look at that woman—she’s crying her eyes out, and he’s just sitting there, stone-faced. Bet he’s been lording it over everyone for years.”
The crowd outside the door grew, their whispers blending into a low, judgmental hum.
Edna’s performance—turning the tables and playing the victim—had the bystanders picking sides, many of them leaning in her favor.
Some even started calling out, “Hey, sir, whatever’s going on, at least let the lady stand up and speak her mind! There’s a limit to how much you can play favorites with your kids!”
“Exactly!” someone else chimed in.
Voices of agreement rippled through the crowd.
Inside, Luther’s face turned crimson, his eyes wild with fury, blood pressure spiking dangerously.
His hand shot up, ready to strike Edna.
But Edna didn’t flinch.
She was waiting for this—for the old man to lose control.
The unhealthy pregnancy she was carrying inside her was just looking for an excuse, an opportunity like this.
Luther was deeply superstitious, terrified of any omen of death.
If she could pin a miscarriage on him, he’d back off completely, never daring to meddle in her and Murdock’s affairs again.
After that, she could keep playing the victim, and Luther would be at her beck and call—putty in her hands.
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