She shrugged.
“You and Grant have money.”
“We own a dry-cleaning business. We’re not millionaires.”
“You have savings.”
My pulse quickened.
“How do you know what we have?”
Neither answered.
I tightened my arm around Clara.
“How do you know, Brielle?”
My mother’s expression shifted.
Barely.
But I saw it.
That was when irritation turned into fear.
I reached toward the hospital tray.
“Where’s my phone?”
“You don’t need it right now,” Diane said.
I stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
Brielle stepped nearer.
“It means stop acting dramatic and give me the card.”
“No.”
Her expression hardened.
“Natalie.”
“I said no.”
“Give me the damn card.”
“Get out.”
For a moment, she looked genuinely shocked.
Then something ugly surfaced in her face.
“You’ve always thought you’re better than me.”
I blinked.
“Are you serious?”
“You have the business. The house. Grant. Now the perfect baby.”
