“Then he forged it,” Margaret Crane said, her voice calm and level.

Margaret took a step closer to the kitchen island, her heels clicking against the dark hardwood.

“Nathan is very skilled at putting other people’s names on documents,” Margaret said.

I stood perfectly still, my hand resting on the smooth white quartz of the countertop.

A sudden, sharp cramp bloomed in my lower back.

I took a slow, deep breath, pressing my palm against my spine to ease the pressure.

It was too early for this kind of ache, but I forced my expression to remain neutral.

I could not let Sloane, or anyone else, see any sign of weakness right now.

“What else did he forge, Sloane?” I asked.

Sloane looked at me, her eyes red-rimmed and desperate.

“Everything,” she whispered.

She took a step backward, her heel catching on the edge of the Persian rug.

She stumbled slightly, then steadied herself against the back of one of the barstools.

“He said you were unstable,” Sloane said, looking from me to the board members.

“He said you were going to lose the baby anyway,” she said.