Alistair's eyes, the color of a winter sky, dissected her. They lingered on the silk scarf knotted at her throat, a silent accusation.

Chloe's hand tightened on her purse strap. Her heart was a frantic bird beating against her ribs. Her mind raced, scrambling for a plausible lie, any lie.

He didn't step into the elevator. Instead, he spoke to his assistant, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Leo. Wait for me in the car."

Leo gave a short, respectful nod. As he stepped out and the elevator doors began to close, his eyes met Chloe's for a fraction of a second. They held a flicker of something that looked unnervingly like pity.

The doors sealed them in. The hallway was silent, amplifying the sound of Chloe's ragged breathing.

"Aren't you going to explain yourself, Chloe?" Alistair's voice was quiet, but it cut through the silence. "What are you doing here?"

She forced her spine to straighten, her voice to remain steady. The first lie came out, thin and brittle. "I... I wasn't feeling well. Just a routine check-up."

A corner of Alistair's mouth twitched, a barely perceptible movement that was more of a sneer than a smile. He knew. Of course, he knew.

He didn't call her out. Not yet. He simply turned. "Follow me."

The command was absolute. Chloe's feet moved of their own accord, her body betraying her, following him down the plushly carpeted corridor.

He led her not to the lobby, but to another private room. A consultation suite she hadn't seen before. He placed his thumb on a scanner beside the door. It beeped and clicked open.

Chloe's stomach dropped. He had biometric access. This wasn't just a clinic he used. This was his territory.

The room was less clinical, more like a luxurious office. A large mahogany desk, leather chairs, a view of the city. Alistair walked to the desk and picked up an internal phone.

His voice was a cold, clipped command. "Dr. Evans. Bring me the expedited HCG panel. Now."

Chloe's blood ran cold. HCG. The pregnancy hormone.

A moment later, a distinguished, gray-haired doctor knocked and entered, handing a single sheet of paper to Alistair with a deferential nod.

Alistair took the paper. He didn't look at it. He already knew what it said. He turned it around and held it out for her to see.

Her eyes flew to the highlighted line.

Human Chorionic Gonadotropin (HCG), Serum, Quantitative: POSITIVE.

The word was a brand, searing itself into her brain.

A strangled sound escaped her lips. "That's impossible." It had been less than twenty-four hours—biology didn't work that way. No test on earth could detect a pregnancy this soon. She looked at Alistair’s icy, expectant gaze and realized with a jolt: this wasn't a medical report. It was a trap, a forged bluff to force a confession.

Alistair took a step forward, then another, backing her against the hard edge of the desk. He was a wall of expensive wool and cold fury, trapping her. He was so close she could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, a scent she associated with distance and silence.

"Oh? Impossible?" He tapped the paper with a manicured finger, right on the word 'POSITIVE'. His touch was light, but it felt like a hammer blow.

"We've been married for two years," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. "We sleep in separate wings. We haven't shared a meal, just the two of us, in over a year."

He leaned in closer, his presence overwhelming. "So you tell me, Chloe Parrish," he whispered, his breath a cold puff against her cheek. "Whose baby is it?"

The color drained from her face. Her mind was a maelstrom of panic. She wanted to scream that it was a mistake, a mix-up, that the timing was medically impossible—but admitting she knew why it was impossible meant admitting she’d been with someone last night.

But she couldn't say any of that.

Admitting the child wasn't his was admitting infidelity. The morals clause in their prenup would be invoked. The trust fund, her one ticket to freedom, would vanish. She would be cast out with nothing, the laughingstock of New York society. The wife who cheated and got caught.

Her silence was her confession.

Alistair's jaw tightened. The coldness in his eyes hardened into something brutal. He gripped her chin, his fingers digging into her skin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"You had better think very carefully before you answer," he hissed. "You know the consequences of lying to me."

For the first time, the fear that gripped her wasn't about loneliness or public humiliation. It was a primal, physical fear of the man standing before her.

This wasn't a question. It was a verdict.

He released her abruptly, as if touching her had soiled his hands. He smoothed the cuff of his perfectly tailored shirt, a minute, dismissive gesture that made her feel like dirt.

He turned to the doctor, who had been standing silently by the door the entire time.

"Dr. Evans," Alistair said, his voice returning to its icy calm. "My wife seems to have some misconceptions about her own condition. Please, be so kind as to explain to her, personally, the accuracy of this report."