It hadn't even been two weeks since her divorce from Dylan. Counting the days, if she really was pregnant, it most likely happened two months ago.
Dylan had come back for one night two months ago. She'd just returned from shopping with Elena, wearing a dark teal cheongsam that hugged every curve—cinched waist, full hips, black hair swept up, red lips. The kind of look that made it impossible to look away. That night, the dress ended up in shreds on Dylan's floor.
He rarely lost control—never at night, never outside the bedroom. But that time, something had slipped.
Which meant she couldn't be sure if he'd used protection.
But Paige didn't have time to go to the hospital. The next morning, she woke up to a message from Mrs. Chavez demanding compensation, complete with so-called "plagiarism comparison photos" and threats of a lawsuit.
Nancy's fingerprints were all over this.
Ebony Fernandez, the studio's junior assistant, went pale when she heard they were being sued. "Paige, what do we do? I've looked at that design—there's nothing wrong with it. They look nothing alike! The only similarity is the color, and you can't claim plagiarism just because of a color!"
Paige pinched the bridge of her nose. This was personal. "We handle it the way we always do."
"But..." Ebony bit her lip. "I heard Mrs. Chavez's husband is seriously connected. Isn't it dangerous to cross her?" Fresh out of college, still young—her fear was understandable.
Paige gave her a reassuring look. "Don't worry. She's coming after me, not you. If you're scared, take the next few days off. Come back when this blows over."
"But can you handle this alone?"
"I'll be fine. Besides, you've been pulling overtime all week—you've earned a break."
Ebony was just an assistant. There wasn't much she could do to help, and since Nancy had aimed this attack squarely at Paige, she didn't want anyone else dragged into the mess. After sending Ebony home, Paige pulled out her phone and arranged to meet with a lawyer.
Jeffrey Dickerson was a friend of one of the other partners and served as the studio's legal consultant.
Saying she wasn't scared would be a lie. Paige was rattled—she just didn't let it show. When she sat down with Jeffrey and explained the situation, his expression grew serious. He seemed to know Mrs. Chavez.
"If you can settle, settle," he advised. "Mrs. Chavez isn't someone you want as an enemy."
His meaning was clear: don't make waves. If this escalated, she'd be the one who suffered.
Paige took a sip of water, teeth pressing into her lower lip. "If we actually went to court—do I have any chance of winning?"
"You do. But weighed against the time, money, and energy you'd pour into it? It's not worth it. And given who Mrs. Chavez's husband is..." Jeffrey trailed off. He didn't need to finish. Paige understood.
Her stomach sank. She didn't want to swallow this injustice—but she couldn't let her stubbornness hurt the studio. It wasn't just her blood and sweat that had built it.
"I understand. Thank you, Jeffrey."
The words had barely left her mouth when another wave of nausea rolled through her. She pressed a hand to her stomach. "Excuse me—I need the restroom."
"Of course."
She barely made it to the sink before the dry heaving started. In the mirror, her face was chalk-white. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her cheeks, forcing herself to breathe. Get it together.
Steadying herself against the wall, she stepped out of the restroom—
And walked straight into someone.
"Sorry, I—"
The apology died on her lips. She looked up into Dylan Farley's face—that impossibly handsome face—and froze.
Her scalp prickled. Why was he here?
Just her luck.
