Chapter 3 Sins of Omission
Sloane
The Harrington townhouse in Greenwich Village stood as a testament to old New York wealth, its brick façade whispering stories of generations past.
As I followed the elderly housekeeper through the foyer, Eleanor Harrington waited in the dining room, the epitome of grace with her silver hair perfectly coiffed and her posture impeccable in a tailored Chanel suit.
"Sloane, darling." She extended both hands toward me. "You look absolutely exhausted."
"Good evening, Eleanor." I kissed her powdered cheek. "The hospital's been demanding lately."
"Charles," Eleanor addressed the butler who materialized silently beside us, "please serve Dr. Bennett the bone broth first. She needs her strength."
"It's my special recipe," she explained, watching me with hawkish attention. "Grass-fed beef bones simmered for forty-eight hours. Full of collagen and minerals—excellent for a woman your age."
A woman my age. I suppressed a smile. At twenty-eight, I was hardly geriatric, but in Eleanor's world, I was already behind schedule in producing heirs.
"You've lost weight," Eleanor observed, her blue eyes—so similar to Graham's in shape if not in warmth—scanning me critically. "Is my grandson taking proper care of you?"
I nearly choked on the broth. The idea of Graham concerning himself with my eating habits was absurd.
"Graham has been very... attentive," I lied, dabbing at my lips with the monogrammed napkin. "He's just extremely busy with the new expansion."
And with Tessa Reynolds, my mind unhelpfully supplied.
"Business should never come before family," Eleanor declared. "That was Rowan's mistake too."
Rowan—Graham's father. The mention of him always created a momentary silence, a pause for the brilliant financier who had died too young, leaving behind a struggling company and a son determined to rebuild it.
"Is Graham attentive in... other ways?" Eleanor asked, her direct gaze making the implication clear. "The Harrington line needs to continue, Sloane. It's been three years."
I carefully set down my spoon. "We're both focused on our careers at the moment."
Eleanor waved her hand dismissively. "Careers are important, but family is eternal. Did you know that Dr. Winters mentioned you'd missed your annual checkup last month?"
My spine stiffened. Dr. Winters—the Harrington family physician and apparently my personal informant.
"He also mentioned your cycle was delayed," Eleanor continued casually. "I wondered if perhaps there was happy news you hadn't shared yet."
My fingers tightened around the sterling silver spoon. The invasion of privacy was breathtaking in its casualness. Of course the Harringtons would have their doctors report back. Of course my body wasn't my own—it was a vessel for the next Harrington heir.
"I—" I began, unsure whether to reveal my pregnancy.
The heavy dining room door swung open.
Graham stood in the doorway, immaculate in his tailored charcoal suit. His blue eyes moved from Eleanor to me, then narrowed slightly.
"I see I'm just in time for the family planning discussion," he said, his voice carrying that familiar edge of displeasure. "Should I be concerned that my grandmother knows more about my wife's menstrual cycle than I do?"
Eleanor sniffed disapprovingly. "If you paid more attention to your wife instead of your boardroom, perhaps you would."
"There's nothing to know," I said firmly. "My cycle is irregular due to stress from surgical rotations. Dr. Pearson has already checked. It's just hormonal imbalance from overwork."
Graham's gaze lingered on me, searching. I maintained eye contact, years of medical training helping me project confidence despite my racing heart.
"Is there a reason you summoned me from a critical investor meeting, Grandmother?" Graham asked, bending to kiss Eleanor's cheek. "Your message suggested urgency."
"Family is always urgent, Graham," Eleanor replied. "You've barely visited in three weeks. The Metropolitan Museum gala board has noticed your absence."
"The company takes priority right now. We're in the middle of acquiring—"
"The company has always been your excuse," Eleanor cut him off. "Your grandfather built Harrington Enterprises while still maintaining his position in society."
"There are matters we need to discuss privately," Eleanor said, glancing meaningfully at me. "Family business."
Graham's expression didn't change. "Sloane is my wife. Family business concerns her as well."
The statement should have warmed me. Instead, I recognized it for what it was—Graham asserting control, not including me out of affection.
"Some matters are best discussed between blood relations first," Eleanor insisted. "Sloane understands."
"Of course," I said, rising from my chair. "I'll wait in the library."
As I left the dining room, I heard Eleanor's voice turn sharp: "Charles, please ensure we're not disturbed."
I paused outside the study when I heard Eleanor's raised voice through the door.
"—absolutely unacceptable!" she exclaimed. "That woman has no place in this family, Graham. Her mother was nothing but a social climber, and Tessa is cut from the same cloth."
I froze. Tessa. Of course this was about her return.
"My personal life is not up for committee review," Graham's voice responded coldly.
"As long as I am alive," Eleanor's voice cut through the door like a blade, "you will not bring that French woman into any Harrington property. Do you understand me?"
My hand unconsciously drifted to my still-flat abdomen, where our child—Graham's heir—was growing unacknowledged.
The study door flew open. Graham stood there, his face a mask of controlled fury. When he saw me, his expression hardened further.
"Enjoying the show?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "I should have known you'd be behind this."
I blinked in confusion. "Behind what?"
"Was your reputation as Presbyterian's rising cardiothoracic star not enough? Did you need to solidify your position in the Harrington family by running to my grandmother with gossip?"
The unfairness stung like a physical blow. "I was invited to dinner, Graham. That's all. I didn't tell Eleanor anything."
"Then how does she know about Tessa?" he demanded, stepping closer.
"I don't know. Maybe she has the same society columnists on speed dial that I do."
Before he could respond, Charles appeared, his usually impassive face contorted with alarm.
"Mr. Harrington!" he called urgently. "Come quickly—the madam has collapsed!"
Graham's face transformed instantly from anger to concern. He pushed past me without a second glance, racing toward the study.
I followed immediately, doctor's instincts overriding personal hurt. As I entered the room, I saw Eleanor slumped in her chair, her face alarmingly pale, Graham kneeling beside her.
"Call 911," I ordered Charles, already moving to check Eleanor's pulse. "Tell them possible cardiac event, female patient, mid-seventies."
As my fingers found the weak, irregular pulse at Eleanor's wrist, I met Graham's eyes across his grandmother's unconscious form. For once, there was no accusation there—only fear and, perhaps, a silent plea for help.
In that moment, we weren't estranged spouses or adversaries. We were simply two people terrified of losing someone we both loved.