The interior of the Sterling family limousine was pitch black. The privacy partition was up. The silence between Elana and Atlas was thick enough to choke on.
Elana sat pressed against the leather door panel. She watched the streetlights of Manhattan blur past the tinted glass. Her reflection looked like a ghost.
Across from her, Atlas sat in the dark. The blue light from his phone illuminated his harsh features. Nathan was texting him. The crisis management team was already working, but the damage was done. The internet knew the Sterling heir was sterile.
The car turned off the main road. The tires crunched over the gravel driveway of the Sterling estate.
Atlas shoved his phone into his pocket. The car stopped. He opened his door before the driver could reach it. He stepped out into the cold night air and walked toward the massive front doors of the main house. He left Elana behind.
Elana slowly got out of the car. Her legs felt heavy. The gravel crunched under her heels. Mr. Finch, the head butler, stood at the open doorway. He bowed his head slightly as she approached.
She walked into the brightly lit foyer. The air smelled of expensive pine and woodsmoke. The massive fireplace was roaring. It was a warm house that always felt freezing.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of a wooden cane hitting the marble floor echoed from the dining room. Elana stopped breathing for a second. Conrad Sterling III was waiting.
Atlas was already standing at the entrance of the dining room. His back was rigid.
"Sit."
Conrad's voice was a low rumble. It demanded absolute obedience. He sat at the head of the long mahogany table. His silver hair was perfectly combed. His eyes were sharp and predatory.
Atlas pulled out a chair and sat. Elana walked in and took her seat on the opposite side of the table. There were eight empty chairs between her and her husband.
Maria, the maid, walked in silently. She placed a bowl of asparagus soup and a plate of grilled sea bass in front of Elana. It was Elana's favorite. Conrad remembered. He always remembered.
Conrad picked up his knife and fork. The metal scraped against the porcelain. "I saw the news tonight."
Atlas stopped moving. He did not look up from his empty plate.
"A woman with a fake stomach," Conrad said. His tone was conversational, but the underlying anger was palpable. "Making a circus out of our name."
"I am handling it," Atlas said coldly.
Conrad shook his head. "I am not talking about the PR disaster. I am talking about this family." He tapped his cane against the leg of the table.
Elana picked up her spoon. She tried to eat the soup. But as the smell of the asparagus hit her nose, her stomach violently contracted. A wave of nausea crashed over her. The stress of the night, the fear, the tight dress-it all twisted her insides into a knot.
She put the spoon down quickly. She pressed her hand against her stomach and took a sharp breath through her nose.
Conrad's eyes snapped toward her. He missed nothing. He set his silverware down. "Elana. Are you feeling unwell?"
Elana forced a tight smile. "I am just a little tired, Conrad." Her skin was pale and clammy.
Atlas did not look at her. He was staring at his grandfather. A silent war was happening between the two men.
"Two years," Conrad said, his voice dropping to a cold, lethal whisper. "For two years I have kept your secret. And tonight, the whole world found out because your wife had to save your name from a woman with a rubber stomach."
Atlas looked his grandfather in the eye. His silence was his confession.
Conrad's face turned red. He slammed his cane onto the floor. The loud crack made Elana jump. "This family has built an empire over four generations! And you cut off the fifth?"
"It was a personal medical decision," Atlas said. His voice was steady, but his knuckles were white on the table.
"Personal decision?" Conrad roared. "I have swallowed that excuse for two years! I kept your secret out of loyalty to this family's image. But now the entire world knows. When you die, who takes over this empire? You cut off the bloodline!"
Elana's stomach rolled again. The nausea was rising to her throat. She gripped the edge of the table. Her fingers ached.
Conrad suddenly stopped yelling. He looked at Elana. His anger melted into a calculated, intense curiosity. "Elana. Have you been feeling sick lately? Any other symptoms?"
Elana's heart hammered. She knew what he was asking. He thought she was pregnant. He was looking for a miracle to undo Atlas's betrayal.
She had to say no. It was impossible. Atlas was sterile.
"I am fine, Conrad," she said. But as she spoke, the smell of the fish hit her again. Her mouth watered with bile. She clamped her hand over her mouth, shoved her chair back, and ran out of the dining room.
She barely made it to the guest bathroom down the hall. She fell to her knees in front of the toilet and dry heaved. Her chest burned. Tears pricked her eyes.
Back in the dining room, Conrad watched the empty doorway. A strange light entered his eyes.
Atlas picked up his fork. He acted like his wife running out to vomit was completely normal.
Conrad stood up. He leaned heavily on his cane. "Atlas Sterling IV. Sit down."
Atlas froze halfway out of his chair.
"Starting tomorrow," Conrad said, his voice leaving no room for argument, "you and Elana will sleep in the master suite. Together. And until I see a great-grandchild, neither of you will speak the word divorce."
Atlas's head snapped up. "Grandfather, you can't—"
"It is an order," Conrad barked. "Not a negotiation."
Upstairs, the sound of the bathroom door shutting echoed through the house. Conrad looked up at the ceiling. He muttered to himself, "Perhaps... there is a way to fix this."
