It hadn't even been two weeks since her divorce from Dylan. Counting the days, if she really was pregnant, it most likely happened two months ago.

Dylan had come back for one night two months ago. She'd just returned from shopping with Elena, wearing a dark teal cheongsam that hugged every curve—cinched waist, full hips, black hair swept up, red lips. The kind of look that made it impossible to look away. That night, the dress ended up in shreds on Dylan's floor.

He rarely lost control—never at night, never outside the bedroom. But that time, something had slipped.

Which meant she couldn't be sure if he'd used protection.

But Paige didn't have time to go to the hospital. The next morning, she woke up to a message from Mrs. Chavez demanding compensation, complete with so-called "plagiarism comparison photos" and threats of a lawsuit.

Nancy's fingerprints were all over this.

Ebony Fernandez, the studio's junior assistant, went pale when she heard they were being sued. "Paige, what do we do? I've looked at that design—there's nothing wrong with it. They look nothing alike! The only similarity is the color, and you can't claim plagiarism just because of a color!"

Paige pinched the bridge of her nose. This was personal. "We handle it the way we always do."

"But..." Ebony bit her lip. "I heard Mrs. Chavez's husband is seriously connected. Isn't it dangerous to cross her?" Fresh out of college, still young—her fear was understandable.

Paige gave her a reassuring look. "Don't worry. She's coming after me, not you. If you're scared, take the next few days off. Come back when this blows over."

"But can you handle this alone?"

"I'll be fine. Besides, you've been pulling overtime all week—you've earned a break."

Ebony was just an assistant. There wasn't much she could do to help, and since Nancy had aimed this attack squarely at Paige, she didn't want anyone else dragged into the mess. After sending Ebony home, Paige pulled out her phone and arranged to meet with a lawyer.

Jeffrey Dickerson was a friend of one of the other partners and served as the studio's legal consultant.

Saying she wasn't scared would be a lie. Paige was rattled—she just didn't let it show. When she sat down with Jeffrey and explained the situation, his expression grew serious. He seemed to know Mrs. Chavez.

"If you can settle, settle," he advised. "Mrs. Chavez isn't someone you want as an enemy."

His meaning was clear: don't make waves. If this escalated, she'd be the one who suffered.

Paige took a sip of water, teeth pressing into her lower lip. "If we actually went to court—do I have any chance of winning?"

"You do. But weighed against the time, money, and energy you'd pour into it? It's not worth it. And given who Mrs. Chavez's husband is..." Jeffrey trailed off. He didn't need to finish. Paige understood.

Her stomach sank. She didn't want to swallow this injustice—but she couldn't let her stubbornness hurt the studio. It wasn't just her blood and sweat that had built it.

"I understand. Thank you, Jeffrey."

The words had barely left her mouth when another wave of nausea rolled through her. She pressed a hand to her stomach. "Excuse me—I need the restroom."

"Of course."

She barely made it to the sink before the dry heaving started. In the mirror, her face was chalk-white. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her cheeks, forcing herself to breathe. Get it together.

Steadying herself against the wall, she stepped out of the restroom—

And walked straight into someone.

"Sorry, I—"

The apology died on her lips. She looked up into Dylan Farley's face—that impossibly handsome face—and froze.

Her scalp prickled. Why was he here?

Just her luck.

He wore a charcoal gray suit, tall and lean, with clean lines from broad shoulders to narrow waist. He looked down at her, his eyes calm but cutting—cold and detached, as if regarding a perfect stranger. Which, apparently, now included his recently divorced ex-wife.

The air went still for a few seconds.

Paige's mind had already drifted elsewhere. She hadn't expected to see him again so soon. This was their first encounter since the divorce, and he was still as impossibly refined and handsome as ever.

Then her stomach lurched violently. The color drained from her face as nausea surged up her throat. She spun around and rushed back to the restroom.

Dylan watched her retreat, his brow slowly furrowing.

Standing before the mirror, Paige looked absolutely ghastly—pale as a corpse. I look like something out of a horror film, she thought. Can't exactly walk out there like this. She also had no idea if Dylan was still lurking outside.

She deliberately dawdled, killing time until she finally ventured back out. The hallway was empty—no sign of him. She exhaled in relief and returned to her seat.

Jeffrey noticed her pallor immediately. "Should I take you to the hospital? You don't look well."

"I'm fine. Just haven't been sleeping."

He leaned closer. "Are you running a fever?"

"No." Paige instinctively pulled back, maintaining distance. "Thank you for tonight, Mr. Dickerson. I need to stop by the studio. I'll be in touch if anything comes up."

Jeffrey's smile faltered. "Alright."

Paige grabbed her bag and stood—then froze. Dylan stood not far away, a cigarette pinched between his fingers, smoke curling lazily upward. His gaze was fixed squarely on her. His expression remained neutral, but those eyes... they cut like a blade.

A heartbeat later, he was gone. The whole thing lasted maybe thirty seconds.

Paige looked away, refusing to dwell on whatever that look had meant. She and Jeffrey left the restaurant one after the other.

She'd planned to call her own car, but Jeffrey insisted on driving her back—repeatedly, emphatically—until she gave in and climbed into his vehicle.

The moment she settled into the seat, her stomach rebelled again. She clamped a hand over her mouth and forced the nausea down.

"Ms. James? Are you alright?"

She swallowed hard. "I'm... I'm fine."

"Do you need to throw up?"

"Just... stomach trouble."

Her confidence was crumbling. What if I really am pregnant? What then—keep it or...? The uncertainty gnawed at her.

"Maybe we should go to the hospital after all," Jeffrey suggested.

"Really, I'm fine. I'll take something when I get home." She shut him down again. She would go to a hospital—but not with anyone else. If word got out, the complications would be endless.

She had Jeffrey drop her near the studio. Once his car disappeared around the corner, she ducked into the nearest pharmacy and bought a pregnancy test. Back at the studio, she went straight to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, she stood there staring at the stick in her hand, waiting.

Five minutes passed.

She threw the used test in the trash, her heart racing out of control.

Right then, her phone shattered the silence—loud as a thunderclap in the empty office. She flinched, then checked the screen.

Dylan.

Now? He's calling now?

She didn't want to answer.

Thankfully, it stopped after a few rings. He didn't call back.

Her fingers trembled as she dialed Elena instead. The words tumbled out before she could stop them: "I—I think it's real. I think I'm actually pregnant. What do I do?"