The conservatory at the Pierre Hotel smelled of lilies and old money—a suffocating sweetness that masked the rot underneath. I stood near the periphery, gripping a glass of sparkling water, watching Duke hover over a wheelchair in the center of the room.
Bethany Wheeler looked like a tragic Victorian heroine, wrapped in cashmere despite the heat, her skin translucent. She was playing the part of the dying swan perfectly. Every time she coughed, Duke flinched, his hand hovering over her shoulder as if his touch alone could keep her tethered to the earth.
I smoothed the skirt of my white sheath dress. It was a power move, wearing white to a luncheon where I didn't truly belong. It screamed confidence. Or arrogance.
Bethany’s gaze snapped to me. Across the room, her eyes didn’t look sick. They looked predatory.
"Duke," she murmured, her voice carrying through a lull in the conversation. "Is that the art consultant you mentioned? The one from... where was it? Yale?"
Duke stiffened. He waved me over. I walked the gauntlet of staring socialites, my heels clicking a rhythm that felt too loud against the marble.
"Ms. Wheeler," I said, keeping my tone professional. "It’s a pleasure to welcome you back."
"Is it?" She reached for her glass of heavy red Merlot. Her hand trembled—a theatrical, calculated shake. "Duke tells me you've been so... helpful while I was away."
"I do my job."
"Of course." She smiled, and the tremble in her hand became a spasm. The glass tipped.
It wasn't an accident. I saw the flick of her wrist, the precise calculation of the angle. The wine hit me chest-high, a sudden, cold shock that bloomed across the white silk like a gunshot wound. Gasps rippled through the room.
"Oh!" Bethany pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide and wet. "My tremors... I'm so clumsy. Duke, I'm so sorry."
I stood frozen, the wine soaking through to my skin, sticky and humiliating. The heat rose up my neck, not from the stain, but from the lie.
"You did that on purpose," I said. My voice was low, but in the silence, it carried.
Bethany shrank back, turning her face into Duke’s coat. "Duke, she's... she's shouting at me."
Duke turned to me. His eyes, which had looked at me with such heat just nights ago, were now glacial. "Apologize, Scarlett."
"She threw wine on me."
"She is sick," Duke snapped, his voice cutting through the room. "And you are making a scene."
"I'm making a scene?" I laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "I'm the one wearing the menu."
Duke stepped closer, invading my space not to seduce, but to intimidate. He gripped my arm, his fingers digging into the bruising flesh. "You're delusional if you think you have the standing to speak to her like that. You are hired help, Scarlett. Nothing more. Remember your place, or I'll find someone who does."
The words were a physical blow. *Hired help.*
I pulled my arm free, the movement jagged. "I'll send you the bill for the dry cleaning," I whispered, and turned on my heel, walking out with my head high while the wine dripped down my legs like blood.
***
Forty-eight hours later, the nausea hit me before the alarm did.
I sat on the cold tile of my bathroom floor, the plastic stick in my hand trembling. Two pink lines.
The world narrowed down to that tiny window. A baby. Duke’s baby.
Panic warred with a sudden, fierce protectiveness. This changed the calculus. Duke was lost in his guilt over Bethany, blinded by her manipulation, but a child... a child was real. A legacy. He was obsessed with securing his line, with proving himself to the board. This wasn't just a baby; it was a bridge back to him.
I dressed quickly, choosing a loose blouse to hide a stomach that hadn't even grown yet. I needed to see him. I needed him to know that we were a family, whether he was ready for it or not.
When I reached Alexander Corp, the atmosphere was wrong. The usual hushed efficiency was replaced by frantic shouting and running interns.
I pushed past his assistant and burst into his office. "Duke, we need to talk. I have—"
"Shut the door."
Duke was standing by the window, tie undone, hair disheveled. He didn't look at me. He was staring at the skyline as if he wanted to jump.
"What's happening?" I asked, the news of the baby dying in my throat.
"The SEC," he said, his voice hollow. "They're flagging the Chen merger. Someone tipped them off about the valuation leak. They're calling it insider trading."
My stomach turned over. "But the deal is clean. We made sure of it."
"It doesn't matter if it's clean. The investigation alone will spook the shareholders. The stock is already in freefall. If this sticks to me, the board will vote me out by noon tomorrow."
He turned to face me then. His face was gray, his eyes hollowed out by fear.
"I can't lose this company, Scarlett. It's all I have."
"We'll fight it," I said, stepping forward, hand instinctively going to my stomach. "We can fix this together. Duke, there's something else—"
He cut me off, sliding a thick manila envelope across the mahogany desk. "I already fixed it."
I stopped. The air in the room went still. "What is that?"
"Press release. And a statement to the SEC." He looked down at his platinum watch, refusing to meet my eyes. "We've identified the source of the leak. A rogue consultant acting without authorization to inflate the stock price for personal gain."
My blood ran cold. "A rogue consultant?"
"It's the only way, Scarlett." His voice pleaded, but his posture was rigid. "If it's me, the company dies. If it's you... you're a contractor. You can disappear. I'll pay you. I'll set you up somewhere safe until it blows over."
He wasn't just breaking my heart. He was destroying my life. Framing me for a federal crime to keep his suit clean.
"You're feeding me to the wolves," I whispered.
"I'm saving the empire!" He slammed his hand on the desk. "Do you have any idea what's at stake?"
"Yes," I said, my hand tightening over my flat stomach. "I do."
But I didn't tell him. I couldn't. I looked at the man I loved—the man who was willing to send me to prison to save his reputation—and realized there was no bridge back.
I was alone.
