Chapter 2

Dominic didn't touch the papers. Instead, he placed both palms flat on the counter and leaned forward, his voice lethally soft.

"Elara, I'll pretend I didn't hear that. You're hormonal. It's the injections."

"It's not the injections," I said.

He straightened up and loosened his tie with one sharp tug. "You signed a contract. You don't get to walk away because you're in a mood."

"Clause 12," I said.

That stopped him. His eyes narrowed. "What about Clause 12?"

I pulled out my phone and showed him a single photo — Vivienne stepping out of his second penthouse in a silk robe, collecting the morning paper. The timestamp was three weeks ago.

"Marital misconduct," I said. "Cohabitation with a third party. Your penalty clause is void, Dominic. I owe you nothing."

The color left his face. For a man who controlled a twelve-billion-dollar empire, he suddenly looked very small.

Then the mask came back on. He snatched the phone from my hand. "Where did you get this?"

"Give me back my phone."

"Who gave this to you?" His grip tightened on the device, his knuckles white. "Was it Maxwell? Did that driver of yours—"

"It doesn't matter who." I held out my hand. "Phone. Now."

Dominic stared at me like he was seeing a stranger. In three years, I had never once raised my voice, never refused an order, never looked him in the eye for longer than two seconds.

He put the phone down slowly, sliding it across the counter. "Elara. You don't want to do this."

"I already have."

His jaw worked silently. Then he said something that, three months ago, would have shattered me.

"If you leave, you'll never see this baby. I'll get full custody. You know my lawyers. You know what I'm capable of."

In the past, that threat would have brought me to my knees. The baby was the only reason I had endured the humiliation — the only piece of warmth in this frozen arrangement.

But the version of me who would have crumbled was already dead.

I looked at Dominic and said, "Then I'll terminate the pregnancy."

The words landed like a grenade. Dominic flinched — actually flinched, as if I'd slapped him.

"You wouldn't," he whispered.

"Try me."

His phone buzzed on the counter. Vivienne's name lit up the screen with a string of hearts. Neither of us looked at it.

"Elara, listen to me carefully." Dominic's voice had turned to ice. "You are carrying the Ashford heir. That child is worth more than anything you will ever—"

"More than me?" I interrupted.

He stopped.

"Finish the sentence, Dominic. The child is worth more than me. That's what you were going to say, isn't it?"

The silence between us stretched thin enough to snap.

Finally, Dominic grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. At the door, he turned. "You have twenty-four hours to come to your senses. When I get back, those papers had better be in the shredder."

The door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.

I sat in the quiet penthouse, placed my hand on my still-flat stomach and whispered, "Don't worry. I'm getting us both out."

At midnight, my phone buzzed. Not Dominic — an unknown number.

The message contained a video. I pressed play.

It was security footage from Dominic's office — timestamped today, three hours ago. In it, Dominic sat across from Vivienne, holding her hands.

And Vivienne was saying: "Once she delivers the baby, we'll get rid of her, right? You promised me, Dom. You promised."

Dominic nodded and replied, "After the baby is born, Elara disappears. Permanently."

The video ended. My hands were steady.

A second message came through: [You don't know me yet. But I know what he's planning. If you want to survive, meet me tomorrow. — L.]