He wore a charcoal gray suit, tall and lean, with clean lines from broad shoulders to narrow waist. He looked down at her, his eyes calm but cutting—cold and detached, as if regarding a perfect stranger. Which, apparently, now included his recently divorced ex-wife.
The air went still for a few seconds.
Paige's mind had already drifted elsewhere. She hadn't expected to see him again so soon. This was their first encounter since the divorce, and he was still as impossibly refined and handsome as ever.
Then her stomach lurched violently. The color drained from her face as nausea surged up her throat. She spun around and rushed back to the restroom.
Dylan watched her retreat, his brow slowly furrowing.
Standing before the mirror, Paige looked absolutely ghastly—pale as a corpse. I look like something out of a horror film, she thought. Can't exactly walk out there like this. She also had no idea if Dylan was still lurking outside.
She deliberately dawdled, killing time until she finally ventured back out. The hallway was empty—no sign of him. She exhaled in relief and returned to her seat.
Jeffrey noticed her pallor immediately. "Should I take you to the hospital? You don't look well."
"I'm fine. Just haven't been sleeping."
He leaned closer. "Are you running a fever?"
"No." Paige instinctively pulled back, maintaining distance. "Thank you for tonight, Mr. Dickerson. I need to stop by the studio. I'll be in touch if anything comes up."
Jeffrey's smile faltered. "Alright."
Paige grabbed her bag and stood—then froze. Dylan stood not far away, a cigarette pinched between his fingers, smoke curling lazily upward. His gaze was fixed squarely on her. His expression remained neutral, but those eyes... they cut like a blade.
A heartbeat later, he was gone. The whole thing lasted maybe thirty seconds.
Paige looked away, refusing to dwell on whatever that look had meant. She and Jeffrey left the restaurant one after the other.
She'd planned to call her own car, but Jeffrey insisted on driving her back—repeatedly, emphatically—until she gave in and climbed into his vehicle.
The moment she settled into the seat, her stomach rebelled again. She clamped a hand over her mouth and forced the nausea down.
"Ms. James? Are you alright?"
She swallowed hard. "I'm... I'm fine."
"Do you need to throw up?"
"Just... stomach trouble."
Her confidence was crumbling. What if I really am pregnant? What then—keep it or...? The uncertainty gnawed at her.
"Maybe we should go to the hospital after all," Jeffrey suggested.
"Really, I'm fine. I'll take something when I get home." She shut him down again. She would go to a hospital—but not with anyone else. If word got out, the complications would be endless.
She had Jeffrey drop her near the studio. Once his car disappeared around the corner, she ducked into the nearest pharmacy and bought a pregnancy test. Back at the studio, she went straight to the bathroom.
A few minutes later, she stood there staring at the stick in her hand, waiting.
Five minutes passed.
She threw the used test in the trash, her heart racing out of control.
Right then, her phone shattered the silence—loud as a thunderclap in the empty office. She flinched, then checked the screen.
Dylan.
Now? He's calling now?
She didn't want to answer.
Thankfully, it stopped after a few rings. He didn't call back.
Her fingers trembled as she dialed Elena instead. The words tumbled out before she could stop them: "I—I think it's real. I think I'm actually pregnant. What do I do?"
