“Who?” I asked.

Bryce looked irritated, as though my confusion were an inconvenience.

“Sienna Bellamy. She’s pregnant. It’s mine.”

The banana bread was still cooling on the kitchen counter.

I stared at him.

“How long?”

“Does it matter?”

“How long, Bryce?”

He loosened his tie.

“Eight months.”

Eight months.

For eight months, my husband had kissed me goodbye in the mornings, complained about my grocery spending, and occasionally brought me flowers.

For eight months, he had been building another life.

“Her father wants me to take over part of Bellamy Transit’s distribution network,” Bryce continued. “This could make Keene Industrial a major player.”

I almost laughed.

Not because anything was funny.

Because my husband had just explained his affair as though he were presenting a quarterly earnings report.

“And the baby?”

He hesitated.

“Sienna and I are getting married.”

There it was.

The sentence that ended three years of marriage.

Bryce pushed the divorce papers toward me.

“I’ve been generous. You can keep your car and your personal belongings.”

I looked at the documents.

He had listed Keene Industrial Supply as entirely separate property.

He had also included a clause stating that I had contributed no significant financial or professional value to the company.

That clause interested me.

“Who prepared this?”

“My attorney.”

“Did he review the company’s financing agreements?”

Bryce frowned.

“Why would that matter?”

“Just wondering.”

He folded his arms.

“Don’t start pretending you understand corporate law, Laurel.”

I picked up the pen.

And signed.

Bryce looked almost disappointed.

He had prepared himself for tears, arguments, perhaps a desperate attempt to save our marriage.

Instead, I asked one question.

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“Are you certain this is what you want?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I hope it’s worth it.”

I left with one suitcase.

What Bryce never knew was that the previous afternoon, Everett had called me.

“Laurel, there’s something wrong with Keene Industrial.”

“What kind of wrong?”

“Someone has been moving money through a subsidiary that doesn’t appear in the regular operating statements.”

“How much?”

“Nearly eleven million dollars.”

I sat down.

“That isn’t possible.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Who authorized it?”

Everett was silent.

Then he said something that made my blood run cold.

“The signatures appear to be yours.”

I had not signed anything.

And suddenly Bryce’s demand that I sign the divorce papers made a terrible kind of sense.

Thirty-one days later, at Aster House, Bryce was still standing beside my chair.

“You always were good at pretending,” he said.

Everett finally set down his wineglass.

“Mr. Keene.”

Bryce turned.

Everett smiled politely.

“I believe my sister asked you to leave.”

Bryce blinked.

“Your sister?”

Sienna’s hand tightened around Bryce’s arm.

“Wait. Sister?”

Everett stood.

At six feet three, he was almost as tall as Bryce, but there was something about his calmness that made the difference between them obvious.

“Everett Winslow.”

He extended his hand.

Bryce stared at it.

Then at his face.

The color slowly drained from his cheeks.

“Winslow?”

Everett nodded.

“Of Winslow Meridian.”

The silence around our table became absolute.

Sienna looked between us.

“What’s Winslow Meridian?”

Bryce didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because any industrial distributor operating in the Northeast knew the name.

Winslow Meridian controlled purchasing agreements, manufacturing facilities, equipment financing, and distribution networks worth billions.

And Everett was its chief executive.

Bryce looked at me.

“Laurel?”

I folded my napkin.

“Yes?”

“Your brother is Everett Winslow?”

“He’s been my brother for thirty-four years.”

“But you said he worked in finance.”

“He does.”

Everett smiled.

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“Among other things.”

Sienna’s expression changed.

Not into embarrassment.

Into calculation.

“Wait,” she said slowly. “Does that mean Laurel is related to the owners?”

Everett looked at her.

“My sister is the majority voting shareholder.”

Bryce grabbed the back of the chair.

For the first time since our divorce, he had nothing to say.

I stood.

“Enjoy your dinner, Bryce.”

But before I could leave, he caught my wrist.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Everett’s expression hardened.

“Remove your hand.”

Bryce released me immediately.

I looked into my former husband’s eyes.

“Because I wanted to know whether someone could love me without knowing what I owned.”

His face twisted.

“So this was some kind of test?”

“No, Bryce. Our marriage wasn’t a test.”

I stepped closer.

“But you failed it anyway.”

Sienna suddenly gasped.

Her hand flew to her stomach.

“Bryce.”

He turned.

“What?”

“Something’s wrong.”

A dark stain was spreading across the cream fabric of her dress.

The restaurant erupted into movement.

Someone called for an ambulance.

Bryce stood frozen.

And despite everything that woman had done to me, I was the first person to reach her.

“Sienna, look at me. How far apart are the contractions?”

She gripped my hand.

“Two minutes.”

Everett was already on his phone.

I helped her into a chair.

“Keep breathing. You’re not alone.”

She stared at me through tears.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because your baby hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Then Sienna grabbed my wrist with surprising strength.

“Laurel,” she whispered.

I leaned closer.

Her next words were barely audible.

“Bryce doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t know what?”

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Her eyes filled with terror.

“The baby isn’t his.”

And before I could respond, she whispered one more thing.

“Neither is the company.”

END OF PART 2