CHAPTER 7: The Grandfather's Question

Arthur had survived hostile boards, bankrupt partners, and enemies who smiled with champagne in their hands.
None of that prepared him for a child standing beside his table with proof of a family he had been denied.
He looked at Noah again, this time not as an interruption, not as a mystery, but as blood standing alone in a room trained to reject him.
The boy's shoulders were tense. His eyes were too careful. He looked like someone who had practiced being polite because no one had promised kindness.
Arthur thought of James at ten, solemn and stubborn, hiding behind chairs when guests became too loud.
Then he thought of Clara Bennett, a name he had heard only once, years ago, when Margaret dismissed her as an unsuitable distraction.
Unsuitable.
What a convenient word for cruelty dressed as taste.
Arthur rose from his chair.
The guests held their breath.
He looked past Margaret and directly at James.
“James,” Arthur said, voice low and terrible, “why is my son's ring in that boy's hand?”