The silence in Hawthorne Residence was absolute.

Eleanor Vance sat frozen, the soft wool of the tiny sweater rough against her trembling fingers.

Another man’s child.

The words echoed, cruel and unrelenting.

Isabella, her sweet, determined granddaughter, capable of such a betrayal?

It seemed inconceivable.

Yet the certainty in Victoria Blackwood’s voice had been absolute. The pity in Sophia Reed’s eyes felt genuine.

A cold dread settled in Eleanor’s stomach.

She thought of Liam. His laughter. The way his eyes crinkled, so like…

A memory surfaced, sharp and unwelcome. A whispered argument she’d overheard months ago between Isabella and Ethan. Harsh words about trust. About absence.

She had dismissed it as marital strife.

Now, it took on a sinister new meaning.

Had Isabella, in her loneliness, sought comfort elsewhere?

The idea was a knife to Eleanor’s heart.

She thought of Ethan Blackwood. His cold demeanor during recent visits. His distance from the child.

It all fit a terrible, painful narrative.

A soft cry escaped her lips.

She had welcomed Liam with open arms, believing him to be her great-grandson, a symbol of her granddaughter’s love.

Now, that love felt tainted. The symbol, a lie.

What was she to do?

Confront Isabella? Demand the truth?

The thought of causing her granddaughter more pain was unbearable.

But neither could she live with this deception.

Tears welled in her eyes, blurring the intricate stitch of the sweater.

A garment for a child who might not be family.

A home that might no longer be a sanctuary.

The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.

Everything looked the same.

But nothing would ever be the same again.

Eleanor Vance’s face lost all color.

Her lips trembled slightly.

“You are mistaken! Isabella is nothing like that.”

Victoria Blackwood let out a cold, dismissive laugh.

She had no more patience for this conversation.

She turned away sharply. “I only came here to warn you. Keep your granddaughter away from my son. She is entirely unsuitable for him.”

Sophia Reed stayed behind as Victoria left.

She approached Eleanor with a mask of concern. “Mrs. Vance, please try to remain calm. There is something… something Isabella has kept from you. I only recently found out myself…”

“What are you talking about?” Eleanor asked, her pulse beginning to race.

Sophia sighed heavily, feigning reluctance. “You may not be aware, but Liam… he isn’t Ethan’s son. He is Isabella’s child with another man.”

Eleanor’s breathing became labored.

Her grip tightened on the sofa’s armrest.

Her face turned a ghostly shade of white.

Lucas Grant wasn’t Liam’s father? Since when was he Ethan’s son? What was happening? How could Isabella have done such a thing?

“Just think about it. Liam is nearly three. That means three years ago, Isabella was…” Sophia paused for dramatic effect. “Ethan and I share a true, deep love. Isabella is the one who came between us.”

“No… that’s impossible…” Eleanor whispered, her vision starting to blur.

A crushing weight of sorrow pressed down on her heart.

“Mrs. Vance? Are you alright?” Sophia asked, her voice dripping with false worry.

A flicker of triumph shone in her eyes.

Eleanor tried to form words, but none came out.

She leaned back slowly, collapsing against the sofa cushions.

“Mrs. Vance! Mrs. Vance!” Sophia cried out, pretending to be alarmed.

She made no move to help.

Eleanor lay motionless on the sofa, her face ashen, her breathing shallow and weak.

Meanwhile, in her studio, Isabella Scott was completely absorbed in her work.

Her focus was entirely on the laptop screen.

Her fingers moved swiftly across the drawing tablet.

The outside world had ceased to exist.

There was only the design unfolding before her.

A sudden, sharp pang of unease shot through her.

She frowned, her concentration broken.

“Is something wrong, Isabella?” Victoria Lee asked, noticing her friend’s disturbed expression.

Isabella rubbed her temples. “It’s nothing. I just feel… strangely unsettled.” She tried to push the feeling aside and return to her work.

But the discomfort lingered.

It was a persistent, stinging sensation deep in her chest.

Suddenly, her phone rang, shattering the studio’s quiet.

The caller ID showed Hawthorne Residence.

A cold dread instantly washed over her.

“Hello?” she answered, her voice unsteady.

“Mrs. Blackwood, your grandmother… she’s had a heart attack. We’ve taken her to the hospital,” Henry Wilson said, his voice thick with emotion.

“What?” Isabella’s head spun as if she’d been struck.

Her drawing tablet slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor.

“My grandmother… what happened? How?” she stammered, her words fracturing.

“Mrs. Vance collapsed suddenly at home. You need to come immediately!” Henry urged, his voice frantic.

Her vision swam.

Isabella braced herself against the desk, taking a deep, steadying breath.

“Which hospital? I’m leaving now,” she managed to say, forcing her voice to be clear.

After getting the details, she hung up.

She grabbed her coat and ran from the studio.

“Isabella, what’s going on?” Victoria called out, alarmed by her friend’s pale face and frantic movements.

She pressed for an answer.