The restroom door slammed open with enough force to crack tile. Chloe jerked back from the toilet bowl. Eleanor Sterling's heels clicked across the floor—steady, deliberate, each step a countdown.

The stall door swung open. Chloe hadn't locked it.

Eleanor's gaze raked over her kneeling form—the tear-streaked face, the hand still pressed to her mouth. Then her eyes dropped lower. To Chloe's stomach.

"You're pregnant."

Chloe's mind went blank. "What?"

"Don't play stupid." Eleanor's voice was a venomous whisper. "I've been watching you for weeks. The fatigue. Slipping out of meetings. Julian mentioned you've been sick." Her lips curled. "And now you're vomiting first thing in the morning? I wasn't born yesterday."

"I'm not pregnant. I've been under stress. I haven't been eating—"

"Oh, please." Eleanor grabbed Chloe's arm, manicured nails digging in. "I've watched half a dozen women try to trap their way into this family. The sudden illness. The strategic timing. You're all the same." She yanked Chloe closer. "Did you really think Julian would leave his fiancée for a bastard from a paid whore?"

"I'm not pregnant. I swear—"

"We'll see what a doctor says." Eleanor's grip tightened. "There's a hospital three blocks away."

"Let go of me—"

The restroom door swung open again.

Julian filled the doorway, his frame blocking the corridor light. Both women froze.

Eleanor recovered first. Her face transformed from cold fury to maternal anguish. "Julian! Thank God. This girl—I believe she's pregnant. I caught her being sick. She's trying to trap you with a bastard. Just like your father—"

"Enough."

The single word silenced the room. Julian's eyes hadn't left Chloe. His pupils had contracted to dark pinpricks. His gaze dropped to her stomach.

Chloe felt it like a physical weight. "Julian. I am not pregnant. I've been sick for weeks. Stress. No sleep. No food. I'm not pregnant."

He didn't speak. His jaw was set like granite.

"Don't listen to her lies," Eleanor hissed. "Let's take her to a doctor. If she's telling the truth, she has nothing to hide."

Julian moved. Two strides, and he had scooped Chloe into his arms. His grip was iron.

"Julian, put me down—"

"Bodyguard." His voice cut through. "My aunt. Don't let her follow."

He carried her through the hallway. She beat her fists against his chest—like hitting stone. He didn't look at her. Just walked.

The lobby was silent. Every head turned—the CEO, cradling his rumored mistress like evidence to be disposed of. Then the executive elevator swallowed them into mirrored walls and suffocating silence.

"I'm not pregnant," she said again, quieter. "Julian. Look at me."

He didn't.

The doors opened onto the subterranean garage. Cold air. Concrete. Gasoline. He bundled her into the Maybach's back seat. "Lennox Hill. Private wing." He slid in beside her. "Now."

The car shot forward. The privacy screen rose. Chloe scrambled to the far side of the seat.

"You can't just drag me to a hospital because your aunt has a theory—"

"She's done this before." His voice was flat. Controlled. "Eleanor. The pregnancy accusation. She tried it with my father's mistress when I was twelve. The woman wasn't pregnant. It didn't matter—my father threw her out anyway. Eleanor had planted enough doubt." His eyes finally met hers. "So we're settling this. Right now."

"And if I'm telling the truth?"

"Then you're telling the truth."

"And if I'm not?"

Silence. He didn't answer.

The clinic was a blur of white corridors. Julian's name cleared every path. Staff appeared and vanished, faces a careful mix of deference and fear. Chloe was escorted to an examination room. The ultrasound wand was cold on her stomach. She stared at the ceiling, tears leaking into her hair.

Five minutes later, the doctor walked into the waiting area. Julian was pacing. Eleanor had found her way there anyway, arms crossed.

"Mr. Sterling. Results are conclusive. She's not pregnant. Acute gastritis, likely from prolonged stress and poor diet. Early signs of an ulcer."

Julian stopped pacing. The tension in his shoulders released—barely perceptible. Then his expression shuttered.

Eleanor snatched the report. Her eyes scanned the page. Bitter disappointment twisted her features. She snorted.

Chloe walked out of the exam room, pulling her blouse straight. Eleanor met her halfway, voice a venomous whisper. "Don't think this changes anything. You're still trash. You'll never be anything more."

Before Chloe could respond, Julian's hand closed around Eleanor's wrist. His grip looked casual. Eleanor's wince said otherwise.

"That's enough. Go home, Aunt Eleanor."

Eleanor's eyes widened. For a moment, she looked almost afraid. Then she yanked free, shot Chloe a look of pure poison, and stalked toward the elevators.

Chloe walked past Julian toward the exit, legs unsteady.

He caught her arm. "Chloe."

"Don't." She pulled free. "You dragged me here. You believed her. For even a second, you believed her."

He didn't deny it.

She nodded slowly. "Take me home. My home. Brooklyn."

They rode in silence. The Maybach was waiting.