Chapter 3

Two months later, I was a different woman.

The research fellowship I had abandoned three years ago? The director, Dr. Harrison, had not only kept my spot open—he'd been waiting for me. Apparently, my early work had impressed him enough that he'd told his staff, "If Sera Voss ever comes back, let her in. No questions asked."

When I showed up at his office, he barely looked up from his papers.

"Took you long enough," he said. "Your lab station is third from the left. Don't be late again."

I threw myself into the work. My mother's formula, combined with my own research, was pointing toward a breakthrough treatment for a rare autoimmune disease that affected thousands of patients worldwide. If it worked, it wouldn't just be published—it would be patented, manufactured, and worth billions.

I worked sixteen-hour days. I ate at my desk. I slept on the lab couch more nights than I could count. My body was exhausted, but my mind was sharper than it had ever been.

And through all of it, the baby grew.

I didn't tell anyone at the lab. I wore loose clothing and kept my appointments quiet. At twelve weeks, the doctor confirmed everything was healthy.

"You're doing great, Ms. Voss," she said, smiling at the ultrasound. "Strong heartbeat."

I stared at the tiny flutter on the screen and felt something I hadn't felt in years—hope.

Meanwhile, the outside world kept spinning.

Dominic and Isabelle's engagement was all over the society pages. Photos of them at galas, charity events, luxury vacations—the media couldn't get enough. Isabelle had clearly hired a PR team to position herself as the "real" Mrs. Sterling.

I didn't care. I had stopped reading the news entirely.

What I didn't know was that Dominic had started looking for me.

Not because he missed me—but because Sterling Group's legal team had discovered a problem with the divorce papers.

The NDA I had signed contained a clause that was, apparently, unenforceable under current law. If I chose to speak to the press about our contract marriage, there was nothing they could do to stop me. This meant Dominic's carefully constructed public image—the devoted businessman who had simply "grown apart" from his first wife—was at risk.

His lawyers wanted me to sign a new, airtight agreement.

But I had changed my number, moved out of my mother's apartment and into a small studio near the lab, and left no forwarding address.

For the first time in his life, Dominic Sterling couldn't find someone.

And it was driving him insane.

I learned all of this later. At the time, I was simply living my life—going to work, attending my checkups, and painting on weekends to keep my sanity. I had picked up art during those lonely nights in the penthouse, and it turned out I wasn't half bad.

One Saturday, I was at a small outdoor market selling a few of my paintings when a woman stopped at my table.

She was striking—dark hair, warm eyes, an effortless elegance about her. She studied one of my landscapes for a long time before looking up at me.

"This is beautiful," she said. "How much?"

"Three hundred," I replied.

She didn't haggle. She simply handed me the cash and said, "I'm Maren. Maren Cross. I own a gallery downtown. Would you be interested in showing more of your work?"

I blinked. "I'm not a professional artist."

Maren smiled. "Neither was Frida Kahlo when she started. Here's my card. Think about it."

She walked away with my painting under her arm, and I stared at her business card for a long time.

Cross Gallery. New York. Paris. London.

This wasn't some small-time operation. Cross Gallery was one of the most prestigious contemporary art galleries in the world.

Later that night, as I lay in bed, I felt the baby kick for the first time.

A tiny, impossibly gentle flutter against my palm.

I smiled in the dark. "You felt that too, huh? Things are starting to look up."

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I picked it up, expecting a message from the lab.

Instead, it was from a number I didn't recognize:

"I know you're pregnant, Sera. We need to talk."

My blood turned to ice.