The Prison-Made Queen novel Chapter 877

Fitch pushed the thought of losing out of his mind. He didn't want to go down that dark road.

...

The next morning, Fitch adjusted his crisp suit cuffs as he hurried down the grand staircase, ready to head to the office.

As he reached the bottom step, he paused. Tamara was sitting perfectly upright on the living room sofa.

Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, her posture rigid, looking very much like a woman waiting for an ambush.

He instinctively glanced at the ornate clock on the wall. It was barely ten past six.

Autumn mornings broke early. The faint, intermittent chirping of birds from the gardens outside only highlighted the heavy, suffocating silence in the house.

Looking at her slender, somewhat frail silhouette, his stomach dropped. How long had she been sitting there in the dark?

"Dad."

"Good morning."

Hearing his footsteps, she immediately stood up. She was wearing a loose, beige knit dress, but even with her growing bump, she looked incredibly fragile.

Fitch stopped in his tracks, his mind racing at a million miles an hour.

No one wakes up at 6 AM just to say hello. She wanted something.

He braced himself for whatever curveball she was about to throw.

Burying his paranoia, he plastered on his warmest, most paternal smile. "Tamara, good morning."

"What are you doing up so early? Why aren't you resting in bed?"

"There's a chill in the air now. Sitting out here, you're going to catch a cold."

He fussed over her, playing the role of the doting father-in-law to perfection.

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