Chapter 50 The Announcement
For a moment after the words left Marissa’s mouth, Brandon didn’t react.
He sat very still, his gaze fixed on Apple’s hand where it rested lightly over her stomach, like he was recalculating something in his head. Timelines. Headlines. Damage control.
“Okay,” he said at last, slowly. “And who’s the father?”
Apple’s smile didn’t disappear, but it tightened at the edges.
Marissa turned toward Brandon immediately. “Brandon. This isn’t the time.”
He looked at her. “What do you mean? It’s exactly the time. People will ask.”
Apple’s eyes flicked toward Nick for a second, then snapped back to Brandon.
“It’s complicated,” she said.
I leaned back slightly, folding my hands in my lap, watching the scene unfold like theater.
Brandon inhaled once, measured. “Is it Nick’s?”
Of course he’d seen the photos. Everyone had.
Apple didn’t answer right away.
I watched his expression shift, calculation clicking neatly into place. Nick’s family was wealthy. Old money. Connections. Brandon was already building a future in his head where this problem solved itself quietly and profitably.
“I’m not managing another scandal blind,” he said, voice low.
Apple flinched. The graduation party fiasco was clearly still playing on repeat in his mind.
Then Brandon stood.
“Nick,” he called, loud enough to draw attention. “Come over here.”
I lifted my glass and took a slow sip, then raised it slightly toward Apple.
Well played.
Nick stood almost immediately. He didn’t look happy. He looked like someone walking toward bad news he already knew was coming. His face was pale, jaw tight, posture rigid. As he approached, his eyes found mine. There was something desperate in them, like he was looking for an anchor.
I didn’t give him one. I looked away.
Nick stopped beside the table.
“Mr. Richards. What’s going on?” He asked, though he already knew.
Brandon gestured towards Apple. “Apple’s pregnant.”
A few heads turned. Nearby conversations slowed as people began to listen more openly.
Nick’s jaw tightened.
“That’s what she says,” he replied.
Apple’s head snapped toward him. “Nick.”
He didn’t look at her.
Brandon frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I haven’t seen a doctor’s report,” he continued calmly. “I haven’t been to an appointment. I haven’t been given anything that confirms that claim.”
Brandon’s expression hardened. “Are you denying it’s yours?”
Nick glanced briefly at Apple, then back at Brandon. “If there’s a pregnancy and if the child is mine, I’ll take responsibility.”
Apple’s face flushed. She hadn’t expected that response.
I lifted my glass and took a measured sip, watching Nick with renewed interest.
For the first time since this mess started, he wasn’t being steered.
Brandon recovered quickly.
He let out a short breath and lifted his hands slightly, palms open.
“Alright. Let’s slow this down.”
He smiled, the practiced kind meant for boardrooms and press.
“Of course I believe my daughter,” he said smoothly. “And of course things will be clarified properly. This is all very fresh.”
Marissa leaned in immediately, her hand settling on Apple’s arm. “We shouldn’t dissect it publicly.”
As if they hadn’t just tried to make Nick claim the pregnancy in front of half the room.
Brandon turned to Nick, lowering his voice just enough to sound reasonable rather than reprimanding.
“I understand wanting clarity,” he said. “That’s fair. We’ll handle things properly. Privately.”
Nick held his gaze for a moment.
“I appreciate that,” he said evenly. “I just don’t want assumptions made on my behalf.”
“Of course,” Brandon agreed. “Of course.”
Marissa squeezed Apple’s hand gently, murmuring something soothing. Apple nodded, regaining her composure, the flush in her cheeks slowly settling into something closer to wounded dignity.
Nick stepped back from the table.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, already turning away, “I have a late call with the Tokyo office.”
No one believed that part.
He didn’t look at me as he left. He moved quickly, shoulders tight, like a man escaping a room before the walls closed in.
Brandon followed him with his eyes, then scanned the room. He saw the curiosity spreading table to table, the attention he had wanted earlier, but not like this. The Reynolds alliance he’d hoped to solidify publicly had slipped through his fingers.
The skin around his eyes tightened.
Then he smiled.
He lifted his glass.
“Well,” he said brightly, voice projecting confidence, “as some of you may have overheard, it seems I’m going to be a grandfather.”
The room responded on cue.
Gasps. Smiles snapping into place. Congratulations blooming like rehearsed lines.
Marissa lifted her glass, radiant now. Apple followed, chin raised, composure neatly reclaimed.
“To family,” Brandon said.
“To family,” the table echoed.
I lifted my glass last, letting the crystal catch the light.
What a performance.
I let the silence stretch, then turned my head slowly and looked at Apple beside me. I let my gaze travel over her, like I was trying to see through skin and bone, into whatever truth she was hiding.
“So,” I said calmly, “when are you seeing a doctor?”
Apple blinked.
“I will,” she said. “Soon.”
I raised an eyebrow. She’d announced it publicly before twelve weeks. And she hadn’t even confirmed it medically.
“How do you know you’re pregnant?” I asked.
She stiffened. “I took tests. Three of them. They were all positive. And I’ve had symptoms.”
“False positives exist,” I said mildly. “So do ectopic pregnancies.”
Her eyes flashed.
Marissa turned sharply toward me. “What is with the interrogation?” she hissed quietly. She lifted her wineglass, fingers tight around the stem. “Don’t be a hater of good things.”
She took a sip, then added, “Your sister is happy. That’s what matters.”
I held her gaze.
I wasn’t even sure Apple was pregnant.
It was all too convenient. The timing. The announcement. The lack of confirmation.
And I remembered my past life. How she’d cried into a camera months later. How she’d posted sad quotes and heartbreak songs. How the miscarriage had become content.
I said nothing.
I took another sip of champagne, eyes still on Apple.
Hours later, I arrived at the family house to collect my mother’s diaries. I was staying at a hotel again.
The party had thinned out long before that, and the Richards were already home.
Finding the door unlocked, I slipped inside and moved through the entry without announcing my presence.
That’s when I heard them.
Marissa’s voice drifted from the living room, low and soothing.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Tell me.”
“It’s Ashley,” Apple sobbed, the words tumbling out between gasping breaths. “It’s always her. She’s ruining everything between me and Nick. He doesn’t even care about me. He only thinks about her.”
Marissa made a soft, comforting sound.
“Did you see how he kept looking at her?” Apple continued, hysteria bleeding through every word. “Why can’t I be with the man I love? What’s wrong with me? Is it because I’m not good enough?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Marissa murmured. “Of course you’re good enough. You’re everything. Some men just don’t know what they have.”
I stepped forward then, into the living room, my heels now clicking deliberately against the floor.
They startled.
Marissa looked up first. Apple froze mid-sob.
I paused, took in the scene, then rolled my eyes.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I said flatly. “It’s very touching.”
I didn’t wait for a response.
I turned and walked down the hall toward my father’s study, the door already ajar. Brandon was inside, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, seated behind his desk like he’d been expecting me.
He looked up. “You came.”
“You said you had something of my mother’s,” I replied.
He nodded and reached into a drawer, then another, before pulling out a worn archival box. He hesitated for a moment before sliding it across the desk.
“Your mother’s journals,” he said quietly. “I should have given them to you sooner.”
I opened the box slowly.
Several journals lay inside. Soft covers. Familiar handwriting. Something tightened in my chest, but I kept my face neutral.
“Thank you,” I said, and meant it. Even if it came years too late.
Brandon hesitated. “You could stay tonight. It’s late. You don’t have to go back to the hotel.”
I closed the box.
“No,” I said. “I’m good.”
Disappointment flickered across his face before he smoothed it away.
“I’m glad you came,” he said. “Truly.”
I lifted the box and held it against my chest.
“I came for this,” I replied.
Then I turned and left.