Cressie was in the kitchen, pouring hot water for tea, when Ellsworth stormed in. He was still wearing his pajamas, his hair messy. He looked furious.
"Did you know?" he demanded.
Cressie didn't turn. "Know what?"
"About the trust!" He slammed a hand onto the marble island.
Beatrice followed him in, looking grim. She was holding a copy of the divorce papers Cressie had signed the night before.
"The agreement is void," Beatrice announced.
Cressie turned slowly. "Excuse me?"
"Clause 14, Section B of the Banks Family Trust," Beatrice recited from memory. "In the event of a divorce proceedings initiated during a pregnancy of a direct heir, all liquid assets of the trust are frozen until the child reaches the age of one."
Ellsworth looked like he wanted to punch a wall. "If we file these papers now, the bank freezes my capital. Banks Capital grinds to a halt. I can't trade. I can't close the merger."
Cressie took a sip of her tea. It was scalding hot, but she welcomed the burn. "So?"
"So," Beatrice said, her voice like steel, "you are not getting divorced. Not yet. You will remain married, legally and publicly, until the child is born and the trust conditions are met."
Cressie let out a dry laugh. "You want me to live here? With him? While he parades his mistress around town?"
"You will live here," Beatrice commanded. "You will play the happy couple for the press. In exchange, we will double your settlement."
"I don't want your money," Cressie said. "I want peace."
"Then you'll have to wait for it," Ellsworth snapped. "I'm not bankrupting my company because of bad timing."
Cressie looked at him. He was pathetic. A billionaire held hostage by his grandmother's rules. This was her leverage. If she left, his empire crumbled.
"Fine," Cressie said. "But I have conditions."
"More conditions?" Ellsworth groaned.
"I'm moving to the West Wing guest suite. Permanently. You stay in the Master. I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear you. And I certainly don't want to smell your... extracurricular activities."
Ellsworth flushed. "This is my house."
"And it's my womb carrying your trust fund key," Cressie shot back. Her voice was sharp, authoritative. It was the voice she used to use in boardrooms.
Ellsworth stared at her, stunned.
"Deal," Beatrice said quickly. "West Wing. Separate lives. Just keep the ring on."
Cressie set her mug down. "Done."
She walked past Ellsworth, brushing his shoulder. He flinched, as if she were electric.
That night, Ellsworth lay in the Master bedroom. It was huge. It was cold.
He was used to Cressie being there. Even when he ignored her, her presence was a constant-a warm body, the sound of her breathing, the smell of her vanilla lotion.
Now, the bed felt like an ice rink.
He rolled over, punching the pillow. He grabbed his phone. Jolie had sent him a photo. She was wearing lingerie, pouting at the camera. Miss you, baby.
He looked at it. Usually, this would excite him. Usually, he would call a car and go to her apartment.
But tonight, he just felt... tired.
He zoomed in on the photo. In the background of Jolie's selfie, on her nightstand, was a book. The Art of War.
He frowned. Since when did Jolie read strategy?
He swiped the photo away.
Down the hall, in the West Wing, Cressie was humming. She was organizing her new room. It was smaller, simpler.
She put her hand on her belly. "Just a few more months," she promised. "We stay in the belly of the beast. And we watch."
---
