The headline appeared in every major newspaper: "Real Estate Mogul William Cross Charged with 30-Year-Old Murder." Below it, a subheading that made Isabelle's stomach turn: "Harrington Foundation Tied to Conspiracy—Was Marcus Harrington Complicit?"She stared at the paper spread across the dining table, unable to eat the breakfast that had long since gone cold. The estate felt cavernous around her. Every room echoed. Every hallway reminded her of Ethan.His room in the guest wing sat empty, bed stripped, closet bare. He'd taken everything in under an hour, methodical and thorough, erasing himself from the estate like he'd never been there at all.Isabelle had tried calling. Seventeen times in the first three days. Every call went to voicemail. Every text went unanswered. By day four, she'd stopped trying.He was staying at Derek's apartment in the city. She knew because Derek had told her, though he'd also made it clear Ethan had forbidden him from sharing anything more."He needs spa

Isabelle woke first, early morning light filtering through the curtains. For a moment, still half-asleep, she didn't understand why there was someone else in her bed. Then she saw Derek's face on the pillow beside hers, and reality crashed back with nauseating clarity.*Oh God.*She sat up slowly, carefully, trying not to wake him. The sheets were tangled around their bodies, evidence of what they'd done. What they'd both done. Her dress from last night lay crumpled on the floor. His tuxedo jacket was draped over the chair.*What have I done?*The horror was immediate and all-consuming. She'd slept with Derek. Ethan's best friend. The night after the foundation gala. The night after giving a public apology for her family's crimes.Isabelle climbed out of bed, wrapping the sheet around herself, and stumbled to the bathroom. She caught her reflection in the mirror—smudged makeup, sex-tangled hair, the face of someone who'd made a catastrophic mistake.Behind her, Derek stirred. By the t

Isabelle woke at 4:47 AM with her stomach roiling. She barely made it to the bathroom before the nausea overwhelmed her.She vomited for twenty minutes straight—violent, relentless heaving that left her shaking and weak. When it finally stopped, she sat on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, her skin clammy, her heart racing.This wasn't stress-induced nausea. This was something different. Something physical and undeniable.She made it back to bed but couldn't sleep. Her stomach felt raw. Her head pounded. She lay there until dawn, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince herself it was food poisoning. Or the flu. Or anything except what her body was starting to whisper.By Wednesday, the pattern was clear.The nausea returned every morning—worse some days than others, but always there. She couldn't look at her favorite foods without gagging. The smell of coffee, usually comforting, made her stomach turn. Even walking past the kitchen sometimes triggered waves of dizziness.Her per

The café in Williamsburg was the kind of place where nobody from Manhattan would ever venture. Derek was already seated in a corner booth when Isabelle arrived, nursing black coffee and looking like he was bracing for bad news.Which he was about to get.Isabelle slid into the seat across from him, and his concern deepened immediately."What's wrong?" he asked. "You look terrible.""I need to tell you something." Isabelle kept her voice low, aware of the few scattered customers around them. "And I need you to listen without panicking.""You're scaring me.""I'm pregnant."Derek's face went white. His coffee cup froze halfway to his lips. For a moment, he just stared at her while the implication crashed over him like a wave.*Oh God. Is it mine?*The question hung in the air between them, unspoken but deafening."Are you sure?" His voice came out tight, strangled."Yes. Five weeks. I've done the math." Isabelle's hands were folded on the table, trembling slightly. "It's from the night

Isabelle and Ethan sat across from each other at a small table in the back corner of the coffee shop. The distance between them felt both infinite and impossibly small.Ethan's expression was carefully neutral—guarded, distant, the face of someone who'd learned to protect himself from disappointment."Derek said you needed to talk," he said finally."I... I don't know how to say this." Isabelle's hands trembled as she folded them on the table. She'd rehearsed the words a thousand times over the past week, and now they wouldn't come.Ethan waited. He'd learned patience in the prosecutor's office—how to let silence do the work, how to let people fill the void with truth.Isabelle took a breath. "I'm pregnant."Ethan froze completely. His entire body went rigid. He stared at her without blinking, without breathing, for what felt like thirty seconds but was probably only five.Finally, he spoke. "Are you sure?""Yes. Five weeks. I've seen a doctor."The words hung between them. Five weeks