Upper hand? Not quite!
...why would he?
This question begged an answer but he drove it to the back of his mind.
And yet the images persisted in his mind's eye - her gaunt pallor, the dark shadows of sleeplessness haunting her eyes even for an immortal like herself.
The distressing frailty of her frame despite the exaggerated swell of her belly which by the way was seemingly getting bigger by the day. Clearly whatever circumstances had driven her back to the ancestral Shelly domain were taking a grievous toll, stripping away her carefully-cultivated veneer of smug superiority.
'She is being punished, persecuted by her vile broodmother,' a small voice supplied from the recesses of Damien's psyche. The notion was not an entirely foreign one to the prince. He knew all too well the lengths to which the withered old crone named Gladys would go to enforce her twisted vision of virtue and honor upon those unfortunate enough to be bound by blood.