Chapter 3

The next morning, I sat across from my father at his favorite restaurant—a quiet French bistro near Central Park that he'd been coming to since before I was born.

Richard Davenport was not a man who showed emotion easily. He'd built Davenport Holdings from a mid-tier real estate firm into a commercial empire through discipline, precision, and an almost surgical ability to read people. But when I told him about Sienna's pregnancy, I watched something crack behind his eyes.

"He swore to me," my father said, his voice low and controlled. "When he asked for your hand—contract or not—he looked me in the eye and promised he would respect you."

"He claims it was IVF," I said. "That nothing physical happened."

"And that matters?" My father set down his coffee cup with deliberate care. "He created a child with another woman while married to my daughter. The method is irrelevant."

My mother, Vivienne, arrived late—she'd been at a charity board meeting. When my father explained the situation, she went pale, then flushed with anger.

"That woman posted a magazine interview?" she hissed. "Calling herself the mother of the Crawford heir? While you're still legally his wife?"

"Mom, I'm handling it."

"You shouldn't have to handle it. Your father and I will call his parents today. Edward and Charlotte Crawford need to answer for their son's behavior."

I shook my head. "Don't. Not yet. The merger is still in play, and if we go nuclear now, Davenport Holdings takes the hit too. Four thousand employees, Mom."

My mother's jaw tightened. She understood the math, even if she hated it.

"Three months," I said. "That's what I agreed to. After the merger closes, I file for divorce and walk away clean."

"And what about your prenup?" my father asked, ever the strategist.

"The prenup has an infidelity clause," I said. "Section 9, Paragraph C: In the event of marital misconduct, the injured party shall be entitled to a compensatory settlement not to exceed thirty percent of shared marital assets."

"Thirty percent of Crawford Industries' marital assets is..."

"Roughly two hundred million dollars," I finished.

My father leaned back. "And can you prove infidelity? IVF is a gray area."

"It won't be gray when my legal team is done with it. He fathered a child with another woman during our marriage. No court in New York will call that anything but misconduct."

My mother reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. We should never have pushed you into this arrangement."

"You didn't push me," I admitted. "I agreed because I thought... I thought eventually he'd see me. Really see me."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken grief.

Back at the Crawford estate that evening, I found a gift box on the dining table. Inside: a diamond necklace from Tiffany's, nestled in blue velvet. A card in Liam's handwriting: I know I've hurt you. Let me make it right.

I closed the box and left it on the table, untouched.

Liam appeared in the doorway, watching me. "You didn't open it."

"I opened it. I'm not keeping it."

"Aurelia, I'm trying—"

"You're trying to buy my silence," I said calmly. "It's what you do. Something breaks, you throw money at it. But I'm not a board member you can appease with stock options."

His jaw worked. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to answer one question honestly. Just one."

He nodded, wary.

"If Sienna hadn't posted that sonogram—if I'd never found out—would you have told me?"

The silence stretched between us like a wire pulled taut. I watched his face, searching for truth, for remorse, for anything real.

"I was going to tell you after the merger," he said finally.

"So no," I translated. "You would have kept lying."

"I was trying to protect—"

"You were trying to protect yourself." I picked up my bag. "I'm staying at my parents' apartment tonight. Don't follow me."

I was halfway to the door when his voice stopped me.

"Aurelia." His tone was different now—stripped of its usual authority, almost raw. "I never meant to fall in love with you. That wasn't part of the plan."

I froze, my hand on the doorknob.

"But I did," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I know that makes everything worse."

I didn't turn around. I couldn't, because if I saw his face, I might believe him. And believing Liam Crawford was the most dangerous thing I could do.

"If you loved me," I said to the door, "you would never have let me find out from Instagram."

I walked out into the cold night air, my heart hammering against my ribs.

He said he loved me. After everything—he said he loved me.

And the worst part? A traitorous, broken part of me wanted it to be true.