The surname—his surname, not hers—sent a flicker of unease through her eyes.
But Noel's indignant ranting smothered it before it could take root.
She turned on me, eyes blazing.
"Losing that baby was a wound I carry too. But why did you do this without asking me? Are you trying to curse your own nephew to death?"
"I haven't even confronted you about humiliating Noel in public yesterday. Do you think because I love you, I'll tolerate anything?"
She pointed at the headstone. "You have ten minutes. Tell the cemetery to destroy this stone. I'll choose a proper name, and we'll erect a new one."
I looked at this woman—the same one who had sobbed so brokenly when our son died.
"And if I refuse?"
She blinked, genuine confusion flickering across her face.
A long silence.
Then her expression hardened into something cold and disappointed.
She raised her hand. Three bodyguards stepped out of the car behind her.
"Bob." Her voice was ice. "He was my child. But Noel's baby is also my child. If you insist on this..."
She met my eyes without flinching.
"Then I'll dig up his grave myself."
A pause. Then, softer—almost gentle:
"I'm sure his spirit will understand. He'd forgive me for protecting his little brother."