Ethan blinked at his mother. “Mom… what?”
Diane folded her arms across the front of her ivory cashmere coat. She had arrived at the hospital looking like she was heading to a private luncheon instead of meeting her first grandchild. Her blond hair was perfectly set. Her lipstick was immaculate. Her posture, as always, was rigid with the confidence of a woman who had spent decades making people around her doubt themselves.
“That child is not a Whitmore,” she said. “I’m sorry if the truth is unpleasant, but somebody needed to say it.”
“Diane,” Robert said, stunned, “what the hell are you talking about?”
She ignored him and kept her eyes on me.
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