Morning sunlight sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of their Manhattan penthouse.
Eloise woke up, her hand instinctively reaching across the high-thread-count sheets. The space beside her was empty.
She sat up. Bronson was already fully dressed in a sharp charcoal suit. He was standing near the edge of the bed, quickly shoving his phone into his inside jacket pocket.
"Why are you up so early?" Eloise asked, rubbing her eyes.
Bronson leaned over the mattress and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "Emergency meeting at the Silicon Valley headquarters. I have to fly out immediately."
Eloise got out of bed and smoothed the lapels of his suit, her fingers expertly adjusting his silk tie. "Make sure you sleep on the plane."
After the private elevator doors closed behind him, Moira walked into the dining room. She set down a fresh copy of the Wall Street Journal and a silver pot of black coffee.
Eloise poured a cup. She brought the steaming mug to her lips and took a sip.
The bitter, acidic taste hit the back of her throat. Her stomach violently contracted.
She dropped the mug. It shattered on the hardwood floor. Eloise sprinted down the hallway, bursting into the powder room. She fell to her knees in front of the toilet and dry-heaved, her hands gripping the cold porcelain rim.
Moira appeared in the doorway seconds later, holding a warm towel. "Mrs. Ortega, should I call the family doctor?"
Eloise waved her off, her breathing ragged. "No. It's just a stomach bug. I'm fine."
She washed her face and walked back to the dining table. She picked up her iPad and mindlessly scrolled through the entertainment news.
She tapped open her favorite lifestyle and entertainment app out of habit. Right at the top of the trending feed was a blurry paparazzi photo with a sensational headline: Tech Billionaire Bronson Ortega Spotted Near Private Upper East Side Clinic.
In the photo, Bronson was walking out of a building. A few steps behind him was a blonde woman.
Eloise laughed softly, shaking her head. The media always tried to invent scandals. She trusted Bronson implicitly. She swiped the notification away.
As the screen went dark, her reflection stared back at her. Her breath hitched.
Her period. It was ten days late.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor. She walked quickly back to the master bathroom and locked the door behind her, sliding the deadbolt into place.
She dropped to her knees and pulled open the innermost compartment of her jewelry box resting on the marble vanity. Tucked safely beneath a velvet lining was a single, unopened pregnancy test she hadn't dared to use.
She ripped the cardboard box open, her hands shaking violently. She followed the instructions, placed the plastic stick flat on the cold marble counter, and set a timer on her phone.
Three minutes.
She sat on the edge of the bathtub, her palms sweating. Her stomach twisted into tight knots.
The timer chimed.
Eloise stood up. Her legs felt like lead. She looked down at the small digital window.
Two solid red lines.
Eloise slapped a hand over her mouth. A sob ripped from her throat. Hot tears spilled over her eyelashes, tracking down her cheeks.
She grabbed her phone, her thumb hovering over Bronson's contact name. She wanted to call him. She wanted to hear him cry with joy.
Her thumb stopped. No. A phone call wasn't enough. She wanted to give him the ultimate surprise.
She opened her contacts and dialed Dr. Fletcher's private line.
"Dr. Fletcher," Eloise said, her voice trembling with suppressed adrenaline. "I need to schedule a blood test for this afternoon. I need absolute confirmation."
She hung up the phone. She looked in the mirror, her hand pressing firmly against her flat stomach.
She grabbed a small, quilted Chanel makeup bag from the shelf. She unzipped the hidden inner lining, slid the pregnancy test inside, and zipped it shut.
She unlocked the bathroom door. Until she had the official lab results in her hand, no one would know.
