“My assistant keeps the guest room stocked.”
“Okay.”
“And if you get hungry again, the kitchen—”
“Carter.” She finally looked at him. Really looked at him. “I’m not going to rob you in the middle of the night. I’m not going to trash your apartment or steal your valuables or whatever you’re worried about. I’m just going to sleep. That’s all.”
The accusation stung because it was fair.
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he said.
“Then what are you worried about?”
You, he wanted to say. I’m worried about you. About how pale you look. About how you stood outside my building for nine hours because you had no other way to reach me. About how badly I want to believe you, and how terrified I am to do it.
What came out instead was, “Just… rest well.”
And then he closed the door before he could do something reckless like beg her to believe he wasn’t the monster he was acting like.
In the hallway, Carter leaned against the wall and tried to breathe.
She was here.
Under his roof.
Possibly carrying his child.
After two months of searching, of wondering, she’d walked right up to his building, and he’d had her turned away.
His phone buzzed with an email: the preliminary report from his investigator.
Carter stared at it for a long moment before opening it—and hated himself just a little more.
PART TWO – TRUST, DOUBT, AND A HEARTBEAT
Natalie woke at 3:00 a.m. with her stomach staging a full‑scale rebellion.
She barely made it to the bathroom before losing the meager dinner she’d managed to keep down.
Morning sickness, she’d discovered, was a cruel misnomer. It struck whenever it wanted to, with a viciousness that left her weak and shaking.
She was crouched on the cool marble floor, forehead pressed against her arm, when she heard the knock.
“Natalie? Are you okay?” Carter’s voice.
