On Monday morning, the news hit every screen in the city.

I was wiping the marble counter in the kitchen when the tablet by the espresso machine chimed. The headline flashed in bold black letters: *Damir Grant and Hollywood Darling Angelique Diaz Steal the Show at the Met Gala.*

A photo filled the screen. Damir looked striking in a tailored black tuxedo. Beside him, Angelique wore a shimmering gold gown that clung to her curves. Her fingers rested against his lapel, and she was looking up at him, laughing. Damir didn’t pull away. He had his hand resting on the small of her back.

Below the photo was an official quote from his publicist: *Mr. Grant’s marriage is a private matter currently undergoing resolution.*

Undergoing resolution. Like a bad debt. Like a clerical error.

Within forty-eight hours, the penthouse landline started ringing off the hook.

*Ring. Ring. Ring.*

Reporters from *Page Six*, freelance paparazzi, magazine editors. I answered once, my voice shaking. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Grant? Can you comment on your husband's appearance with Angelique Diaz? Are you filing for divorce?"

I hung up immediately, my chest pounding.

Damir stepped off the private elevator ten minutes later. He heard the phone ringing again. He didn't even look at me. He just pulled out his cell phone, pressed a contact, and spoke in that cold, flat tone I had come to dread.

"Mark," Damir said to his assistant. "Transfer the landline directly to your office. Kill every outside call to this unit."

He hung up, pocketed his phone, and walked past me toward his study. His cuff brushed my sleeve. He didn't stop. He treated me like a piece of furniture that happened to breathe.

Once the reporters were silenced, Angelique started her own game.

Damir had restored my cell service under his strict corporate plan. It was meant so his team could track my location, but Angelique got the number.

The first message arrived on a Thursday afternoon. It was a photo of Angelique lying across Damir’s king-sized bed, wearing nothing but one of his white dress shirts.

The caption read: *He says you can keep the closet room.*

I stared at the tiny screen until my eyes burned, then deleted it.

Two days later, she showed up at the penthouse. She didn’t come alone. She brought three socialite friends with her, all of them wrapped in designer coats, smelling of champagne and citrus perfume. They dumped half a dozen glossy bags from Chanel and Dior right in the center of the foyer floor.

"Clean those up, won't you?" Angelique called out lazily as she led her friends into the sitting room.

I didn't answer. I picked up the bags one by one and set them neatly against the wall.

"Evelynn!" Angelique's voice drifted from the living room, sweet and sharp.

I walked to the archway. The three women were curled on the sectional, checking their nails and whispering.

Angelique leaned back, crossing her legs. She looked at me with a slow, cruel smirk. "Could you bring us some sparkling water? With ice and lemon, darling. The air in here is so dry."

Her friends traded smirks behind their hands. One of them snickered.

My fingers curled into fists inside my pockets, my fingernails biting into my palms. The humiliation burned in the back of my throat like acid. But I didn't give her the satisfaction of a scene.

"Right away," I said quietly.

I went to the kitchen. I poured four glasses of chilled water. I sliced the lemons with steady hands. Then I set the glasses on a silver tray and carried it back to the sitting room.

I set the tray down on the low glass table. As I straightened up, the three-dollar jade pendant slipped out from the collar of my sweater. It caught the afternoon light, glowing a dull, milky green against my skin.

Angelique’s eyes locked onto it. The smug grin on her lips wavered for a split second. She knew what it was. Damir had probably never mentioned it to her, but she knew it wasn't bought in a showroom on Fifth Avenue.

"Anything else?" I asked evenly.

Angelique waved a dismissive hand, turning back to her friends. "That's all. Run along."

I turned and walked back down the long corridor toward my closet room.

Once inside, I shut the heavy door and slid the lock. The silence rushed over me.

My stomach gave a hard, nauseous lurch. I hurried into the tiny ensuite bathroom and gripped the edges of the porcelain sink. The dizziness passed, but the cold dread remained.

I reached deep into the pocket of my coat hanging behind the door. I pulled out a plain white cardboard box I had bought in secret at the corner bodega two days ago.

My hands trembled as I tore the plastic wrapping.

I took the test. Then I set the small plastic stick on the edge of the sink and leaned my head against the cold mirror.

Three minutes.

When I looked down, the result was already there. Sharp, clear, and unmistakable.

Two bright pink lines.

Pregnant.

My breath hitched. My legs gave out beneath me, and I slid down the wall until I was sitting flat on the freezing bathroom tile.

I looked down at my hands. Instinctively, one of my palms moved to rest over my lower stomach. It was still completely flat. Inside me, a tiny life was growing.

A baby. Damir’s baby.

Tears pooled in my eyes, but I didn't let them fall. A heavy, devastating clarity settled into my bones.

This child was coming into a world designed to crush its mother. To Damir, this wouldn't be a miracle. It would be another trick. Another scheme from the girl he believed sold her soul for five million dollars. He would use it to mock me, or Victoria would find a way to tear it from my arms before I could even hold it.

I pressed my hand tighter against my belly.

"No," I whispered into the quiet dark. "He will never know."

I would protect this child with my life. And I would never give Damir Grant another weapon to destroy me.