Page 9 of The Feud

“He traded me in for a sex kitten,” I grumble.

“He’s a narcissistic asshole who did you a favor. You were horribly unhappy in that marriage and him banging his receptionist was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

This is not the first time Michelle has said those words and it won’t be the last. And she’s correct… I was incredibly unhappy in my marriage, but I never would’ve left. I tried with all my might to make it work. Tried to be everything George wanted but it was never good enough. He always tore me down, complaining about the way I cooked, the extra ten pounds I put on over winter, the way I cut my hair. He hated the fact that I worked hard for my career. George wanted someone to cater to his needs, and while I did a damn good job of maintaining our household and being a good wife while working an arduous job, it was never good enough.

Yeah, I’m better off without him. My sister speaks the full truth.

George Foyette did a number on my head, and I don’t have it in me to put my trust in another man. Which means there is no sense in dating. It’s a waste of time and besides… I have my job and family to keep me happy and fulfilled.

CHAPTER 4

Ethan

Despite my size and tough-as-nails attitude, I feel utterly dwarfed inside the old-fashioned courtroom. It isn’t the high ceilings or the large, arched windows, but rather the oppressive magnitude of the situation. The mid-morning light bathes the polished wood-paneled walls upon which hang oil portraits of stern-faced judges. They seem to stare at me in harsh judgment as I tug on the knot of my tie. The dark blue silk with a silver geometric pattern seems too modern and pretentious and I can’t help but wonder if it might count against me.

Not that I even know what I stand for. Through the last four sleepless nights and after listening to advice from my parents and siblings, I’m still at a loss as to what to do with my alleged new daughter.

Just thinking I might be a dad is enough to churn my stomach. Even my family’s presence can’t calm the rage of emotions within me.

“Isn’t this courtroom just grand?” my mother whispers with her Irish brogue as she leans into my shoulder. Fiona and Tommy Blackburn abandoned their three-month-long trip through New Zealand to run back to Kentucky to be at my side today for the court hearing. They not only want to show the support of a loving familial unit but deep down I know my parents are pining for grandchildren and they may now have one ready-made.

The question about the courtroom décor should irritate me, because there is nothing lovely about this entire situation. But I take a moment to look around and attempt to appreciate what she sees. Anything to get my mind off the fact that a little girl who may or may not be mine will be walking through those double doors at the rear of the gallery any moment.

I ignore the judicial paintings and instead admire the craftsmanship of the rich paneled walls rising up to an arched ceiling adorned with crown molding and intricate plasterwork. At the apex of the arch is a hand-carved decorative medallion from which a massive brass chandelier hangs. Its etched glass globes are fitted with Edison bulbs, providing what would be an ambient glow if not for the bright sun slanting in from the windows flanking the judge’s bench.

The appointments throughout the room are stately—opulent blue curtains trimmed with gold and traditional mahogany furniture, and a massive edifice carved from black walnut anchors the room with its presence. Upon it sits the judge’s bench and soon the man who can change the course of my life.

One of the double doors creaks open and my heart pounds. I don’t want to turn and look but I am not a coward. I’ll have to see the little girl at some point so I might as well face my fears now.

My mother, father and siblings are already swiveled forty-five degrees, their necks craning. Into the courtroom strides Lionel Mardraggon wearing a midnight-blue suit with a very subtle pinstripe complemented by a dark red tie with diagonal silver stripes. He is a tall man with a barrel chest, but he never has to intimidate with his size. That’s all done with the steely-gray eyes he can narrow upon you with such condescension, you’ll question your own existence.

Following behind Lionel, I catch the briefest glance of his wife, Rosemund. She’s wearing an emerald-green silk dress with a high collar, and I’d recognize her alone from that silver-blond hair that she’d passed down to her daughter, Alaine. These days she wears it in a short bob and although she’s in her early sixties, her complexion is flawless.

It only takes a second or two to garner those impressions of Rosemund because my attention is instantly riveted on the child who walks beside her.

Before giving myself permission to really look at my alleged daughter, I notice she walks alone. Nine years old and entering a courtroom where her future will be determined by a complete stranger. One would think such a child would be clinging to her grandmother, but instead, Sylvie is an island as she traverses the thick burgundy carpet that runs between the rows of wooden pews.

I hear a slight gasp and my sister, Kat, murmurs, “By God… look at her.”

And I do just that, my gaze locked on Sylvie’s face.

Eyes the color of sun-dappled ferns, same as mine.

Hair as black as the midnight, starless sky, same as mine.

Her nose, lips, even that stubborn lift of her chin… she looks pure Blackburn. I don’t see an ounce of Alaine, Lionel or Rosemund Mardraggon within her.

Every single doubt and hesitation I’ve held since this news was dropped on my doorstep evaporates. I no longer worry this is some ploy concocted by the Mardraggons to fuck with my family. I’m still not quite sure why Alaine trusts me with Sylvie over her family, I just know her motives aren’t important at this point.

Anybody who looks at that little girl knows I am her father.

I would have thought such a revelation would ease the tumult in my stomach but all it does is increase my apprehension.

Because now I have something to fight for.

“All rise,” the bailiff intones as he stands to the side of the judge’s bench. A door opens just behind him and a man in black robes walks through. He bears no resemblance to the stern men painted in oil on the walls but instead looks like Santa Claus. His hair is snow-white and longish. While his beard is just as pristine in its lack of color, it is a bit shorter and trimmer than the mythical man who slides down chimneys on Christmas Eve. He even wears wire-rimmed glasses over his brilliant blue eyes and his cheeks are a ruddy red.

“Guess we’re in the North Pole,” Trey mutters as we all stand from the benches.

---