The man with the interested eyes made his way toward her, navigating the crowded ballroom with an easy confidence. He was handsome, with dark hair and a suit that was just as expensive as Julian's, but worn with a more relaxed air.
"Vincent Dubois," he said, his voice a smooth baritone. He offered a hand. "You must be Chloe Beaumont. I've seen your picture with our host."
Chloe shook his hand briefly. "Mr. Dubois."
"Please, call me Vincent," he insisted, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Mr. Sinclair is a lucky man. To have such a beautiful companion by his side."
The word 'companion' landed like a carefully aimed dart. It was polite, socially acceptable, and utterly demeaning. Chloe forced a tight smile, murmuring a noncommittal response.
Just then, Julian appeared, a stunning brunette in a red dress on his arm. He introduced her as the daughter of a shipping magnate. His eyes, however, were fixed on Vincent, and they had gone from coolly sociable to dangerously cold. The air crackled with unspoken rivalry.
He saw them talking, and a possessive, territorial glint flashed in his gaze. He turned to Chloe, his voice cutting through her polite conversation with Vincent.
"Get me a glass of champagne."
It wasn't a request. It was a command, delivered with the casual authority of a man dismissing a servant. In front of his rival, he was marking his territory, reminding everyone of her place.
Humiliation burned in her cheeks. She bit her lip, hard, and turned without a word, walking toward the nearest waiter with a tray of drinks.
"Still the same brute, Julian," she heard Vincent say behind her, his tone laced with amusement.
A few feet away, Judah Perez, Julian's younger half-brother, watched the exchange. He shook his head with a sigh of weary resignation and looked down at his phone, his thumb scrolling through the screen.
The Sinclair Group's internal Slack channel was on fire.
An anonymous user had just posted in the random channel. The message was simple: "Someone left this in the 32nd-floor ladies' room trash."
Attached was a photo. A grainy, poorly lit picture of a used pregnancy test. Two pink lines were clearly, horrifyingly visible.
The channel exploded.
"OMG, who is it?"
"Spill the tea!"
"Probably someone in marketing, they're all a mess."
Judah's brow furrowed. He remembered Chloe looking pale and unwell when she’d rushed out of the 32nd-floor restroom this morning. He'd thought it was just stress. Now, a different, more alarming possibility took root. He looked up, his gaze finding Chloe as she returned with Julian's drink. His expression was a mixture of concern and dawning comprehension.
Chloe handed the champagne flute to Julian, her movements stiff, her eyes fixed on a point over his shoulder.
Vincent stepped forward again, smoothly inserting himself back into the conversation. He pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and offered it to Chloe.
"If you ever decide you're in the market for a new environment," he said, his voice low and suggestive, "give me a call. My company values its people."
Chloe hesitated. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the card. It was a lifeline, a small act of rebellion. She took it, her fingers brushing against his.
That was the final spark.
Julian snatched the card from her hand before she could even look at it. He ripped it in half, the sound sharp and violent, and let the pieces flutter to the floor.
"My things," Julian snarled at Vincent, his voice a low, menacing growl, "are not for you to touch."
Vincent didn't flinch. He simply shrugged, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "So I was right. You do care."
Judah quickly stepped in, placing a hand on Julian's arm. "Jules, not here," he murmured, trying to de-escalate. "Did you see the Slack channel? There's some major gossip going around." He was deliberately vague, testing the waters.
Julian brushed him off, his glare still locked on Vincent. "I don't care about office gossip."
Chloe used the distraction to escape. She slipped away to a deserted stone terrace overlooking the city, the cool night air a relief on her burning skin. She needed to breathe.
She pulled out her phone. A notification from Slack glowed on the screen. Her thumb swiped it open.
And her world stopped.
The picture. The grainy photo. The two pink lines. It was hers. Not the one she had destroyed at the penthouse, but the first one—the one she’d taken in a frantic blur in the office stalls that morning. The cleaning crew must have missed it, or someone had deliberately fished it out from the bottom of the bin.
Panic, cold and absolute, seized her. It felt like the floor had dropped out from under her. She swayed, gripping the stone balustrade for support.
"Are you alright?"
She jumped, spinning around. Judah was standing there, holding a glass of water. His face was etched with concern.
Chloe shoved her phone back into her clutch, her movements jerky. "I'm fine."
He didn't look convinced. He watched her pale, stricken face, his eyes full of a pity that was almost as humiliating as Julian's cruelty. Then he looked past her, toward the ballroom doors where Vincent was now standing, watching them.
Judah raised his voice, loud enough for Vincent to hear. "Go for it, man. My brother's an asshole. She deserves better."
It was a performance, a deliberate act of provocation. And Chloe was trapped in the middle of it.
