Chapter 4

James stared at Katherine, utterly poleaxed. "Pregnant? Mine? Katherine, that's impossible. We haven't..."

"Oh, but we have, darling," Katherine cooed, dabbing at a non-existent tear with a lace handkerchief. "Remember that charity gala last spring? You were so distraught about... well, about not having an heir. You had a little too much champagne, and one thing led to another in your hotel suite..."

James looked genuinely bewildered. "I... I don't recall that."

"Grief and alcohol can do terrible things to a man's memory," Katherine said smoothly, her eyes flicking towards me with triumph. "But I assure you, this baby is a Winston. A son, I'm almost certain."

Margaret, who had been observing Katherine with undisguised contempt, finally spoke. "Are you quite sure about your dates, Katherine? Spring was many months ago. You're barely showing."

Katherine's smile tightened. "Some women carry small, Margaret dear. Especially with their first boy." She conveniently forgot Chloe.

My intuition screamed again. Liar. This was a calculated move, a desperate attempt to reinsert herself into the Winston fortune, likely in collusion with Chloe.

"Well, this is... unexpected," James finally managed, running a hand through his hair.

"A miracle, James!" Katherine corrected. "Another chance for you to have the son you've always craved." Her gaze swept over my swollen belly. "Or perhaps, your *first* healthy son."

The implication was clear: my babies were still an unknown quantity, while her (supposed) Winston heir was a sure thing.

I remained silent, watching the drama unfold. James, despite his newfound devotion to me and our twins, was clearly rattled by Katherine's claim. The desperate desire for a legitimate male heir was his Achilles' heel.

Over the next few weeks, Katherine became a fixture at the Winston mansion, ostensibly for the sake of her "delicate condition." She and I circled each other like wary lionesses, our polite exchanges masking a deep-seated animosity. She constantly made subtle digs about my "unproven" ability to produce healthy children, while extolling the virtues of her own "Winston strong" pregnancy.

The tension in the house was palpable. James, caught between his past and his future, was visibly stressed.

My due date approached. I felt strong, my body humming with vitality. My internal "map" assured me the twins were thriving.

Then, Katherine announced she was going into premature labor.

It was all very dramatic – feigned cries of pain, a rushed trip to the most exclusive hospital in Houston. James, despite his reservations, felt obligated to be there.

Two days later, as I myself was admitted for my scheduled C-section, Katherine "gave birth" to a baby girl. A small, rather sickly-looking baby girl.

The news reached James in my hospital room, just as I was being prepped for surgery. He looked confused. "A girl? Katherine was so sure it was a boy."

"Sometimes, ultrasounds can be wrong, dear," I said mildly, though a cold suspicion was forming in my mind.

My twin sons, Alexander and Benjamin, were born healthy and robust, weighing over seven pounds each, their cries lusty and strong. James was ecstatic, his relief and joy palpable. Margaret, who was present, actually shed a tear.

The moment of peace was short-lived.

The next morning, Katherine, looking remarkably well for someone who'd just endured a "difficult premature labor," created a scene in the hospital corridor outside my private suite.

She was hysterical, accusing the hospital staff of a terrible mix-up.

"My baby! My son! Where is my son?" she shrieked, loud enough for half the maternity ward to hear. "That woman," she pointed dramatically towards my room, "she has my son! They swapped them!"

Nurses rushed to calm her. James, looking horrified, came out of my room.

"Katherine, what is this nonsense? You had a daughter. We all saw her."

"No!" Katherine wailed. "I know I had a son! That... that *librarian* has him! She probably bribed someone! Her babies were probably deformed, and she stole mine!"

My blood boiled. I got out of bed, ignoring the nurses' protests, and walked to the door of my suite, my sons sleeping peacefully in their bassinets behind me.

"Katherine," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "Are you accusing me of stealing your child?"

She glared at me, her eyes wild. "Yes! You're a nobody! You probably did something to ensure your children were healthy, something unnatural!"

This was her game. To cast doubt on my sons, to muddy the waters, to create chaos.

"There's a very simple way to resolve this," I said, my gaze locking with James's. "A legally binding, comprehensive DNA test. For all the children. My sons, and your... daughter, Katherine."

Katherine's face paled slightly.

I then turned to Margaret, who had arrived, drawn by the commotion. "Margaret, you were a pediatric nurse for many years. You understand genetics. Perhaps you've noticed... certain discrepancies. For instance, Chloe has always had your distinctive auburn hair. James's hair, and mine, are dark brown. And her blood type... O-negative, wasn't it? While James is AB-positive."

Margaret's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. She had prided herself on Chloe being the spitting image of a younger version of herself. But the blood type detail, a medical fact, would not have escaped her notice if she thought about it.

"A full panel of DNA tests," I repeated firmly. "For everyone. To clear up any... confusion."

James looked from Katherine's suddenly nervous face to my resolute one.

"Alright," he said. "We'll do the tests. Immediately."