Sunlight sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the guest suite like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. Sophie woke slowly, disoriented, the silk dress from last night twisted around her legs like a reminder she couldn't ignore. Her mouth tasted faintly of champagne and Alexander. Her body ached in places that hadn't ached in months-not pain, but the sweet, treacherous memory of almosts.
She sat up too fast. The room spun. Nausea hit like a wave-familiar now, almost routine. Morning sickness. She clamped a hand over her mouth, bolted for the en suite bathroom, and barely made it to the toilet before she retched.
When the worst passed, she sank back against the cool marble wall, breathing through her nose, tears stinging her eyes. Not from the sickness. From the sheer exhaustion of carrying this secret alone.
She hadn't told anyone. Not Elena. Not her mother back in the quiet suburb where the house still smelled faintly of her father's aftershave. Definitely not Alexander.
How could she? The man who'd blackmailed her into this charade, who'd kissed her like he owned her last night, who might still be using her to settle some ancient score tied to her father's downfall-she couldn't drop I'm pregnant and it's yours into that mess without watching everything explode.
She rinsed her mouth, splashed cold water on her face, and stared at her reflection. Pale. Eyes too wide. But the green dress still looked stunning, even wrinkled. Irony at its finest.
A soft knock on the bedroom door.
"Sophia?" Alexander's voice-low, careful. "Breakfast is ready when you are. No rush."
She closed her eyes. He sounded... normal. Almost gentle.
"I'll be out in ten," she called back, voice steadier than she felt.
She found a plush white robe hanging behind the door-his, probably. It swallowed her, smelled like cedar and him. She tied it tight and padded barefoot into the main living area.
He was at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up again, pouring coffee from a French press into two mugs. No tie. No jacket. Just dark jeans and a fitted gray T-shirt that showed the lines of muscle she'd felt under her hands last night. He looked younger like this. Less untouchable.
He glanced up. His eyes flicked over her-robe, bare legs, messy hair-and something hot and unreadable flashed across his face before he masked it.
"Coffee?" he asked.
"Tea if you have it," she said automatically. Caffeine was off-limits now.
He nodded without question, turned to a cabinet, and pulled out a tin of loose-leaf chamomile. He filled a kettle, set it to boil, moved with quiet efficiency. Domestic. It was jarring.
She slid onto a stool across the island, keeping the marble between them like a shield.
He spoke first. "About last night-"
"We don't have to dissect it," she cut in. "It happened. We stopped. Let's leave it there."
He met her eyes. "Is that what you want?"
She hesitated. "It's what's smart."
"Smart," he repeated, tasting the word. "Right."
The kettle whistled. He poured hot water over the tea leaves, let it steep, then slid the mug toward her. Their fingers didn't touch this time.
He leaned on his elbows, closer but not crowding. "You disappeared pretty fast after Elena texted. I didn't push because you asked for space. But I'm not going to pretend nothing changed."
She wrapped her hands around the warm mug. "What changed?"
"Everything." His voice was rough. "I've spent years keeping people at arm's length. You walked in, called me a shark in front of half the city, and somehow ended up in my arms. That's not nothing, Sophia."
She looked down at the tea. Steam curled between them.
"I'm not looking for complications," she said quietly. "This job-the merger-the performance-it's already complicated enough."
He reached across the island, slow, and tilted her chin up with one finger. The touch was gentle this time. Almost tender.
"Then tell me what you are looking for."
Her throat tightened. The truth hovered on her tongue: Safety. Answers. A way to protect the tiny life inside me that ties us together whether we want it or not.
Instead she said, "Time. To figure this out without everything exploding."
He studied her for a long beat. Then he nodded. "You've got it."
He straightened. "Car's downstairs in thirty. We're expected at the office by nine. Harold's team is coming in to finalize terms. You'll sit in on the meeting-take notes, observe. And tonight we have dinner with the Graysons again. Private this time. They want to 'celebrate the engagement.'"
She exhaled. "Another performance."
"Another chance to sell it." He paused. "Unless you'd rather not."
She met his gaze. "I signed the contract. I'll play the part."
Something flickered in his eyes-disappointment? Relief? She couldn't tell.
"Good," he said. "There's a closet in the guest suite. Clothes for today should be there. I had them sent up."
Of course he had.
She slid off the stool. "I'll get ready."
As she walked away, she felt his eyes on her back the whole way.
The Sterling Innovations headquarters felt different today.
Heads turned faster. Whispers followed her down the hallway. The receptionist smiled too brightly. Even the elevator ride up felt like a spotlight was trained on her.
Alexander walked beside her-close, but not touching. Professional. Controlled.
They stepped into the executive conference room at 8:58. Floor-to-ceiling glass, long ebony table, screens already displaying merger projections. Harold Grayson and his team were already seated, coffee in hand.
Harold stood when they entered. "Alexander. Sophia." His smile was warm, paternal. "You two look rested. Good night?"
Alexander's hand brushed the small of Sophie's back-just a second, enough to steady her. "Very good, thank you."
They took their seats. The meeting began.
Sophie opened her tablet, started typing notes. Numbers. Timelines. Equity stakes. Legal clauses. She kept her face neutral, but her mind raced.
Halfway through, Harold turned to her directly.
"Sophia, you've been quiet. What do you think of the cultural integration plan? We don't want to lose the heart of the acquired team."
She glanced at Alexander. He gave her the tiniest nod-permission to speak.
She took a breath. "I think the plan is solid on paper, but it underestimates how much trust matters. You can't just absorb people and expect loyalty. You have to earn it-transparently. Communication. Equity in decision-making. Recognition of what they built before you arrived."
Harold's brows rose. "Spoken like someone who's seen the other side."
"I have," she said simply.
Alexander watched her, expression unreadable.
The meeting wrapped at 11:30. Harold shook both their hands.
"See you tonight," he said to Sophie with a wink. "Wear something dazzling. Margaret's already planning the toasts."
As the room emptied, Alexander stayed seated, watching her pack up her tablet.
"You handled that well," he said.
"I told the truth."
"You always do." He stood, walked around the table until he was beside her. "Even when it's inconvenient."
She looked up. "Is that a problem?"
"No." His voice dropped. "It's one of the things I like most about you."
Her stomach flipped. Not nausea this time. Something softer. More dangerous.
Then the nausea hit again-sudden, sharp. She swayed, hand flying to her mouth.
Alexander's arm shot out, steadying her. "Sophia?"
"I'm fine," she gasped. "Just... low blood sugar. I skipped breakfast."
His eyes narrowed. Concern. Suspicion. "You sure?"
She forced a smile. "Positive."
He didn't look convinced, but he let her go. "We'll get you something on the way to the next meeting."
She nodded, heart hammering.
As they walked out together-him close enough to catch her if she fell again-Sophie felt the weight of the secret settle heavier.
How long could she keep this hidden?
How long before he noticed the signs?
And when he did... would he see it as leverage?
Or as something worth fighting for?
