Chapter 2: Secrets of the Wedding Night

Before I could respond, Jenny stepped forward, her young face betraying a mixture of concern and indignation.

"Miss Anderson," Jenny's voice was quiet but firm, her eyes fixed on Madeleine's flat stomach. "If the child is truly Mr. Thornton's, you must be at least five months along now, since he's been in a coma for six months. Yet I don't see any signs of pregnancy at all."

Madeleine's perfectly manicured nails dug into her palm. "How dare you? A mere maid questioning—"

"A mere maid who has loyally served the Thornton family for years," I interjected. "And more importantly, one who reports directly to Mrs. Elizabeth Thornton."

At the mention of James's grandmother, I noticed a flicker of uncertainty cross Madeleine's face. Elizabeth Thornton's influence in Manhattan's social circles was legendary, and her disapproval could make life very uncomfortable, even for someone with connections like Madeleine.

I seized the moment. "I'm sure Mrs. Elizabeth would be very interested in hearing about this claim, Madeleine. Shall we call her now?"

The color drained from Madeleine's face. After a moment of tense silence, she gathered her designer handbag and moved toward the door. "This isn't over," she hissed, but the threat in her voice had lost its edge.

"It is, actually," I replied calmly. "Mrs. Wilson, please see Miss Anderson out. And arrange for new security protocols starting tomorrow."

As the door closed behind them, I finally allowed myself to breathe. Jenny lingered, fidgeting with her apron. "Mrs. Thornton, would you like me to help you get settled?"

I looked at James's still form on the bed, remembering that I now had responsibilities as his wife – even if it was just a business arrangement. "Yes, please. And Jenny? Thank you for speaking up."

She smiled warmly. "The night things are in the ensuite bathroom. I'll bring fresh towels."

Once alone with James, I took a moment to study him properly. In repose, his features drew my attention – a strong, clean-shaven jaw, straight nose, and naturally arched brows above his closed eyes. His sandy brown hair was slightly tousled against the pillow. His skin was fair but not pale, and despite months in bed, his broad shoulders and tall frame maintained their athletic build. This is my husband, well, he is hot, but weird - six months in a coma, yet his muscles showed no signs of wasting away., I thought.

The medical equipment created a steady background rhythm as I prepared for his evening care. Jenny had explained that James had always been extremely particular about cleanliness and wouldn't allow any of the staff to touch him directly - even in his current state, the nurses respected this quirk and left his personal care to family members only. Now, as his wife, that responsibility fell to me.

I tried to maintain clinical detachment as I unbuttoned his shirt, but my hands trembled slightly. As I removed the fabric from his torso, and my breath caught slightly - his chest was broad and well-defined, tapering down to a narrow waist. Six-pack abs were clearly visible beneath his skin, along with the sharp V-line disappearing beneath his waistband. The dim evening light cast shadows that emphasized the definition of his muscles, making me momentarily forget my task. Focus, Sarah, I chided myself, forcing my eyes back to my work.

That's when I saw it – a simple "M" tattooed on his chest, just above his heart. I froze, my mind immediately going to Madeleine. Was this proof of their relationship?

I was so lost in these thoughts that I nearly jumped out of my skin when my hand, moving to adjust his pajama pants, brushed against him and his eyes suddenly flew open.

Dark, intelligent eyes fixed on mine with laser-like intensity. There was no confusion, no disorientation – only sharp, calculating awareness. Before I could scream, his hand clamped over my mouth, movements swift and precise for someone who'd supposedly been catatonic for six months.

"Not a sound," he whispered, his voice slightly hoarse from disuse but carrying unmistakable authority. "Nod if you understand."

I nodded, my heart pounding against my ribs. He slowly removed his hand.

"The eight million dollars," he said, still keeping his voice low. "The deal of our marriage, correct?"

Another nod.

"Then we have a reason to discuss. My consciousness remains our secret, or the money disappears. Understood?"

"Why?" I managed to whisper. "Why pretend—"

"That's not part of our deal," he cut me off. "Yes or no, Sarah. Eight million dollars for your silence."

I thought of Michael lying in his hospital bed, of Le Mitchell's mounting debts, of my father's legacy slipping away. "Yes."

He released me and stood with fluid grace, moving to what appeared to be a solid wood panel near the fireplace. With a soft click, it swung open, revealing a hidden passage. "I'll return by two. Remember our agreement."

Without another word, he disappeared into the darkness.

---

I left Moon Lake Estate early the next morning, the events of the previous night still swirling in my mind as I made my way to the Thornton family's residence. The drive gave me time to compose myself, to prepare for facing the family that was now technically mine.

---

Elizabeth Thornton presided over the traditional family breakfast tea with regal authority, her silver hair arranged perfectly, her posture impeccable.

"How did James rest last night, my dear?" she asked, stirring her tea with practiced elegance.

"Peacefully," I replied, the lie bitter on my tongue. "The medical staff says his vital signs remain stable."

William Thornton, seated across from me, smirked behind his newspaper. "How fortunate for all of us that you're so... dedicated to his care."

His hand brushed against my knee under the table. I jerked away, nearly spilling my tea. "Please don't touch me."

"Now, now," his smile didn't reach his eyes, "we're family."

"William." Elizabeth's voice carried a sharp edge. "Remember yourself."

The rest of breakfast passed in stilted conversation about charity galas and stock portfolios. I escaped as soon as politeness allowed, heading straight to Columbia Presbyterian.

Michael's private room was quiet except for the steady beep of monitors. Ten days. It had only been ten days since the car accident that changed everything - the crash that took my father's life and left my brother in this state. The doctors' words still echoed in my mind: "There's a significant risk he may never wake up... he could become permanently vegetative."

Le Mitchell had been my grandfather's pride and joy. After immigrating from France in the wake of World War I, he'd built it from nothing into one of Manhattan's most prestigious French restaurants. When he passed it to my father, the restaurant's reputation had grown even stronger. But in recent years, as my father's health declined, he'd been forced to hand over operational control to Uncle Robert.

That's when everything started to fall apart. The changes were swift and devastating - cheaper ingredients slipping into our signature dishes, corner-cutting in the kitchen, inexperienced staff hired to save costs. Regular customers began to notice the decline in quality, and our once-packed dining room grew quieter night by night. By the time my father realized what was happening, Robert had already driven Le Mitchell to the brink of bankruptcy.

The night of the accident, he and Michael had been driving back from a heated confrontation with Robert about the restaurant's finances. Ten days later, here I was, married to a man in a coma to save what remained of our family's legacy.

As I sat by Michael's bedside, my phone buzzed with a message from my mother.

"Sarah, something's wrong," she wrote. "I just checked the account - Robert only transferred half of the money."