Chapter 3

The Cavallo estate wasn't a home. It was a fortress.

Set behind iron gates on twelve acres of lakefront property, the mansion rose from manicured grounds like something out of a gothic novel — all dark stone, sharp angles, and windows that watched you approach like suspicious eyes. I stood at the entrance with a single suitcase containing everything I owned, which wasn't much, and stared up at the place where I would spend at least the next year of my life.

The door opened before I could knock. A woman in her sixties with silver hair and kind eyes appeared, wiping her hands on an apron.

"You must be Olivia. I'm Rosa. I've run this house for twenty-three years, and you're the first person Mr. Cavallo has ever invited to live in it." She looked me over with grandmotherly concern. "You're too thin. Come. I've made lunch."

I followed her through a foyer that could have housed my entire apartment building, past rooms filled with art and furniture that probably cost more than my annual salary, into a kitchen that was mercifully warm and smelled of garlic and fresh bread.

Rosa sat me down at a wooden table that looked older than the house itself and placed a bowl of pasta in front of me.

"Eat," she commanded. "Then I'll show you your room."

I ate. And for the first time in weeks, the nausea that had been my constant companion retreated enough to let me actually taste the food. It was extraordinary — rich, comforting, the kind of meal that made you believe the world might not be entirely terrible.

"Rosa," I said between bites, "what's he really like? When no one's watching?"

She paused, considering the question with the seriousness it deserved. "Lonely," she said finally. "But he'd rather die than admit it."

Before I could respond, the sound of the front door slamming echoed through the house. Heavy footsteps approached, and then Dominic appeared in the kitchen doorway, his tie loosened, his jaw tight with barely contained fury.

He stopped when he saw me. Something shifted in his expression — surprise, then a rapid recalculation, as if he'd forgotten I'd be here.

"You're early," he said.

"You said this weekend. It's Saturday."

"I meant Sunday."

"Then you should have specified."

Rosa made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh. Dominic's gaze cut to her, then back to me.

"Your room is on the east wing. Third floor. Stay out of the west wing."

"What's in the west wing?" I asked.

"My privacy." He turned to leave, then paused. "Dinner is at seven. Don't be late."

He disappeared, and I heard his footsteps ascending a staircase somewhere in the depths of the house. Rosa shook her head, smiling softly.

"He hasn't had dinner with another person in this house in four years," she murmured. "Not since his mother died."

Dinner was an exercise in elegant warfare. We sat at opposite ends of a table designed for twenty, the vast mahogany expanse between us like a demilitarized zone. Rosa had prepared a four-course meal; Dominic ate in silence, his attention fixed on a tablet propped against the centerpiece.

"Do you always work during meals?" I asked, breaking the silence that had lasted through the entire first course.

"Do you always ask questions you already know the answer to?"

"Only when I'm trying to make conversation with someone who has the social skills of a brick wall."

He looked up from his tablet, and for one electric moment, I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

"You keep saying that. What exactly did you expect?"

"Someone grateful. Meek. Eager to please." His eyes held mine across the candlelit distance. "You're none of those things."

"Disappointed?"

"Intrigued." He set down his tablet — a concession that felt enormous. "Tell me something about yourself that isn't in your file."

I hesitated. The truth — I'm pregnant, I'm terrified, I'm in over my head — pressed against my lips. Instead, I offered something smaller but equally real.

"I can solve a Rubik's cube in under ninety seconds."

His eyebrow rose. "Prove it."

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting on the same side of the table, a Rubik's cube Rosa had produced from a junk drawer between us. Dominic watched with undisguised fascination as my fingers flew across the colored squares.

"Eighty-seven seconds," he said, checking his watch. "Impressive."

"Your turn," I challenged, holding it out.

He took the cube, his fingers brushing mine. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through me — sharp, electric, impossible to ignore. His hand stilled for a fraction of a second, and I knew he'd felt it too.

"I don't play games," he said quietly, but he didn't pull away.

"Everyone plays games, Mr. Cavallo. Some people are just more honest about it."

He held my gaze for a long, charged moment. Then he began to turn the cube's faces with methodical precision, and I watched his hands — large, capable, surprisingly elegant — work the puzzle with the same controlled intensity he brought to everything.

Three minutes and forty-two seconds. Not fast, but not a single wasted movement.

"You're a strategist," I observed. "You don't go for speed. You plan every move before you make it."

"And you rely on instinct and pattern recognition," he countered, setting the solved cube down. "Fast, but vulnerable to disruption."

We stared at each other across a children's toy, and the air between us felt thick with something neither of us was ready to name.

Then my stomach lurched. Not the pleasant butterfly sensation of attraction — the violent, unmistakable roll of morning sickness that didn't care what time of day it was.

I stood abruptly. "Excuse me."

I made it to the guest bathroom just in time, gripping the marble countertop as the nausea overwhelmed me. When I finally straightened, splashing cold water on my face, I found Dominic standing in the doorway.

"How far along are you?" he asked, his voice flat as a blade.

The world tilted. I gripped the counter harder, my reflection staring back at me — pale, caught, cornered.

"I don't know what you're—"

"Don't." The single word was quiet but absolute. "I told you I would find out your secrets. I didn't expect it to take less than forty-eight hours." He stepped closer, and his grey eyes were storm clouds now — dark, churning, dangerous. "So I'll ask you once, Ms. Ashford. How far along are you, and whose baby is it?"