“What?”

Everett’s voice was so quiet that it frightened me more than shouting would have.

“My flight leaves at six,” I repeated.

He stood in the middle of our bedroom, still holding me against his chest.

“You’re not going to Chicago.”

“Everett.”

“No.”

“You cannot cancel a twelve-day audit because I threw up.”

“I can cancel anything I want.”

“That is exactly the attitude that makes people hate billionaires.”

Usually, that would have earned a smile.

Tonight, it didn’t.

Everett lowered me onto the bed and crouched in front of me.

“Listen carefully, Sophie. I don’t care about the audit. I don’t care about the Chicago office. Right now, I care about finding out why my wife nearly collapsed on a bathroom floor.”

My wife.

He said it so naturally.

And yet, outside these walls, those two words did not exist.

I looked away.

“Funny how easily you can say that when nobody’s listening.”

His expression changed.

“Sophie.”

“Don’t.”

He reached for my hand.

I pulled it away.

For a moment, the only sound was rain striking the windows.

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Then Everett stood.

“I’m calling Dr. Mercer.”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“She’ll answer.”

“Everett, I’m not dying.”

His face tightened.

“Don’t say that.”

Something in his voice made me look up.

He wasn’t simply worried.

He was afraid.

Deeply, irrationally afraid.

Before I could ask why, his phone vibrated.

He glanced at the screen.

And went completely still.

I knew that expression.

It was the face Everett wore when a business deal had turned into a threat.

“Who is it?”

“Nobody.”

“Everett.”

He silenced the call.

Three seconds later, my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I reached for it.

Everett moved faster.

“Don’t answer.”

I stared at him.

“Why?”

The phone stopped ringing.

Then a message appeared.

I opened it before he could stop me.

YOU SHOULD ASK YOUR HUSBAND WHY YOUR NAME IS ON TOMORROW’S BOARD AGENDA.

Underneath was a photograph.

A confidential Blackwell Northbridge document.

At the top, in bold letters:

SUBJECT: SOPHIE KENDALL — INTERNAL INVESTIGATION.

My stomach dropped.

“What is this?”

Everett looked at the photograph.

The color drained from his face.

“Sophie, give me the phone.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Why is my name on a board investigation?”

He said nothing.

“Everett!”

He dragged a hand through his hair.

“Because someone is trying to destroy you.”

I laughed once.

A sharp, disbelieving sound.

“Destroy me? I’m an operations manager.”

“You’re more than that.”

“Apparently not enough to be your wife in public.”

His jaw tightened.

“That’s not fair.”

“Then tell me what’s happening.”

Before he could answer, the bedroom intercom chimed.

Our private security desk.

Everett pressed the button.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Blackwell, there’s a woman downstairs asking for Mrs. Kendall.”

My heart began to pound.

“Who?”

The guard hesitated.

“She says her name is Vanessa Cole.”

Everett’s expression turned murderous.

I knew Vanessa.

Everyone at Blackwell Northbridge knew Vanessa.

She was the daughter of the company’s largest minority shareholder.

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Beautiful.

Wealthy.

Dangerously ambitious.

And for the past six months, gossip columns had repeatedly suggested she would make a perfect wife for Everett Blackwell.

A suggestion Everett had never publicly corrected.

“Send her away,” he ordered.

“Sir, she says she has information about tomorrow’s emergency meeting.”

Everett closed his eyes.

Then the guard added something that changed everything.

“She also says Mrs. Kendall should know about the marriage contract.”

I stopped breathing.

“What marriage contract?”

Everett turned toward me.

“Sophie, I can explain.”

I stared at the man I had married.

The man who knew how I took my coffee.

The man who remembered the anniversary of our first kiss.

The man who had just carried me from the bathroom like losing me would destroy him.

“What contract, Everett?”

His silence answered more than his words could.

I stood.

The room tilted again, but I caught the bedpost.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Sophie.”

“Did you sign something involving our marriage?”

He looked devastated.

“Yes.”

I felt something inside me crack.

“When?”

“Three months ago.”

Three months.

Three months of dinners together.

Three months of sleeping beside him.

Three months of believing our biggest problem was when he would finally tell the world I was his wife.

“What did you sign?”

Everett opened his mouth.

Then his phone rang again.

This time, the caller’s name was visible.

VANESSA COLE.

He answered.

“What do you want?”

I could hear her voice through the speaker.

Bright.

Almost cheerful.

“Hello, Everett. I assume Sophie has seen the document.”

“Leave her out of this.”

“Oh, darling. That’s no longer possible.”

My blood turned cold.

Vanessa laughed softly.

“Tomorrow morning, the board will learn everything.”

Everett’s hand tightened around the phone.

“You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Actually, I do.”

A pause.

Then she said the sentence that would haunt me for the next forty-eight hours.

“Tell your wife congratulations, Everett.”

My hand moved instinctively toward my stomach.

Vanessa continued.

“Because if she’s pregnant, your little secret is about to become a billion-dollar problem.”

The call ended.

I looked at Everett.

He looked at me.

And for the first time in our marriage, I saw a man who had run out of places to hide.

“Everett,” I whispered.

“What have you done?”

He swallowed.

“Something I thought would keep you safe.”

I stared at him.

“And now?”

He looked toward the dark windows.

“Now I think someone has been waiting for us to have a child.”

Then the security alarm began screaming.