“I keep ginger tea on hand because I’m apparently a masochist who drinks it when I have a hangover,” he said dryly. “But Mrs. Chen—the housekeeper, not the receptionist—swears by it for morning sickness.”
“How would your housekeeper know about morning sickness?”
“She’s had six kids,” he said. “She’s a walking encyclopedia of pregnancy wisdom. I called her at two in the morning asking for advice. She was thrilled. Thought I’d finally gotten a girlfriend.”
Natalie shouldn’t have found that funny. She shouldn’t have laughed when she was sitting on a bathroom floor feeling awful.
But the image of powerful, intimidating Carter Sullivan calling his housekeeper in the middle of the night for pregnancy tips was too absurd not to appreciate.
“You called your housekeeper at 2:00 a.m.?” she asked.
“I heard you get up,” he said. “Thought you might need…” He gestured toward the tea. “This.”
“That’s unexpectedly thoughtful for someone who thinks I might be lying about the baby,” she said quietly.
The words hung between them.
Carter’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.
“I don’t think you’re lying,” he said carefully. “I think I need to be sure. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” she countered. She took another sip of tea, grateful for something to do with her hands. “Because from where I’m sitting—literally sitting on your bathroom floor—it feels pretty similar.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Three years ago, a woman named Vanessa Hartley told me she was pregnant,” he said. His voice went flat. “She brought ultrasound photos, cried in my office. I believed her. Supported her. Started planning a future.”
Natalie’s stomach clenched, and this time it had nothing to do with nausea.
“The pregnancy was fake,” Carter continued. “The ultrasounds were someone else’s. She was being paid by a competitor to distract me during a crucial merger. By the time I found out, the damage was already done. The deal fell through, my name was dragged through every business paper in the country, and I looked like a fool.”
“Carter,” she whispered.
“So yes,” he said quietly. “I need to be sure. Because I have two siblings who depend on me, ten thousand employees whose livelihoods are tied to this company, and I can’t afford to be fooled again.”
He finally met her eyes.
“But that doesn’t mean I think you’re lying,” he said. “It means I’ve been burned before, and I’m cautious.”
The explanation should have made her feel better. It did, in a cold, logical way.
But it didn’t change the fact that he was comparing her to a woman who’d betrayed him. That he was investigating her. That he couldn’t just trust her.
“I’m not her,” Natalie said quietly.
“I know,” he replied.
“Do you? Because it really doesn’t feel like you do.”
He reached out like he might touch her face, then stopped himself.
“I’m trying,” he said softly. “That’s the best I can offer right now.”
It wasn’t enough.
But nothing about this situation was what she’d hoped for.
“I should go back to bed,” she said, setting the empty cup down. “Can you stand?” he asked.
“I’m not an invalid,” she muttered.
But when she tried to get up, her legs were unsteady and her head spun.
Carter caught her instantly, one arm around her waist, the other steadying her shoulder, and suddenly they were pressed together, her hands flat against his bare chest, his face inches from hers.
Time stopped.
She could feel his heartbeat under her palm, rapid and unsteady. She could see the gold flecks in his green eyes, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow. She could smell his cologne—cedar and something warm and distinctly him.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there.
“Natalie,” he said, and his voice was rough in a way that had nothing to do with the hour.
She should pull away. She should put distance between them. She should not be noticing the way his thumb was drawing unconscious circles on her waist.
“I should—” she began.
“Stay,” he finished.
So she did.
They stood in the bathroom doorway, barely breathing, balanced on the knife‑edge between past and future.
Then Carter’s phone buzzed from somewhere in his bedroom. Loud. Insistent. Oblivious to the moment it was destroying.
They broke apart like they’d been shocked.
“Sorry,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “That might be Tokyo.”
“It’s fine,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the apartment’s perfect temperature. “Go.”
He hesitated.
“If you need anything—”
“I know where the ginger tea is,” she said.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Then he was gone, leaving her alone with the echo of his touch.
At 7:00 a.m., Natalie emerged from the guest room, showered and dressed in her rumpled clothes from yesterday. She found Carter in the kitchen, wearing a perfectly tailored suit and arguing in rapid‑fire Japanese on his phone.
He gestured to the elaborate breakfast spread on the counter—fruit, pastries, eggs, bacon—and mouthed, Eat.
She picked at a croissant and tried not to stare.
How could someone look that put‑together at seven in the morning? His hair was perfectly styled, his jaw freshly shaved, his tie knotted with mathematical precision.
He looked nothing like the man who’d stood half asleep in his doorway holding ginger tea.
He ended the call and immediately poured her a glass of orange juice.
“How’s your stomach?” he asked.
“Better,” she said. “The tea helped. Thank you.”
“Good.” He hesitated, then said, “Dr. Reynolds will be here at nine for the paternity test. It’s just a simple blood draw.”
Back to reality.
Back to suspicion.
“Fine,” she said flatly.
“Natalie—”
“What?” She set down the croissant. “What do you want me to say? That I understand? That I’m fine with being investigated and doubted and treated like I’m running some kind of scam? Because I’m not fine with it, Carter. I’m really, really not.”
“I know,” he said.
“But you’re doing it anyway,” she added.
“Yes,” he said. No apology in his tone. Just fact. “Because I have to.”
She laughed once, a brittle sound.
“You know what’s funny?” she said. “That night, I thought…” She shook her head. “I thought it meant something to you. I thought you felt what I felt. But it was just a night to you, wasn’t it?”
“It wasn’t,” he said immediately. “Don’t you dare say it was ‘just a night.’ That night was—” He broke off, jaw tight. “It was everything.”
“Then act like it,” she said. She stood now, the words spilling out. “Act like you remember how you looked at me. How you touched me. How you said you’d never felt anything like that before. Because the man from that night would have believed me. The man from that night would have trusted me.” Her voice cracked. “He would have been naive,” Carter interrupted, his voice suddenly cold. “He would have been an idiot. He would have gotten his heart broken and his life wrecked again.”
The again hung between them.
Natalie picked up her small purse.
“I’m leaving,” she said. “The test will happen when I’m ready. On my terms, not yours.”
She headed for the door.
“You have my information now, right? From your investigation?” she added over her shoulder. “You can contact me when you’re ready to act like a human being instead of a paranoid machine.”
“Natalie—”
She was already gone, the apartment door closing behind her with satisfying finality.
In the hallway, waiting for the elevator, she let herself shake. Let herself cry.
Because that had been harder than she’d expected.
Carter stared at the closed door for a full minute before his brain caught up with reality.
She’d left.
He pulled out his phone and brought up her number from the investigator’s preliminary report, immediately feeling like a villain for having it.
The call went straight to voicemail. He tried again. Same result.
“Damn it,” he muttered, heading back into the apartment.
The breakfast spread still sat untouched, except for the single croissant she’d picked at. The guest room still smelled faintly of her shampoo, something floral and sweet.
Evidence of her presence was everywhere, and the emptiness in her absence hit him like a physical blow.
His phone buzzed.
Marcus: “Sir, the full investigation report is ready. Sending it now.”
“Fine,” he texted back.
He opened his laptop, downloaded the file, and started reading.
With every line, he felt like more of an idiot.
Natalie Marie Spencer, age twenty‑six. Freelance translator specializing in French and Portuguese legal documents. Average annual income: forty‑seven thousand dollars.
No criminal record. No history of litigation. No suspicious financial activity.
Lived with her maternal grandmother, Eleanor “Gran” Spencer, age seventy‑eight, in a rent‑controlled apartment in Brooklyn.
Father unknown.
Mother deceased—overdose. Natalie had been eight years old.
Raised by her grandmother.
Maintained a close friendship with Charlotte Whitmore, daughter of tech magnate Robert Whitmore, since age twelve. Relationship verified as genuine through school records and years of social media history.
No history of long‑term romantic relationships. No evidence of seeking out wealthy partners.
Multiple character references described her as kind, honest, hard‑working, and fiercely independent.
Financial analysis showed no unexplained deposits, no luxury purchases, no debt beyond student loans she’d paid off last year. Rent and utilities paid on time. Groceries bought at budget stores. MetroCard usage consistent with a commuter relying on public transportation.
One line near the end hit him like a punch: “Subject’s freelance work declined 47% in the past three weeks following negative press coverage. Multiple clients terminated contracts citing reputation concerns.”
His stomach dropped.
Her work had declined because of him.
Because someone had photographed her outside his building.
Because someone had leaked it.
He kept reading.
“Subject attended charity gala as guest of Charlotte Whitmore. Verified through guest list, parking records, and security footage. No prior connection to Carter Sullivan or Sullivan Enterprises. No evidence of premeditation or planning. Subject appeared uncomfortable in formal setting, stayed close to Whitmore for majority of evening until encountering Sullivan at approximately 9:47 p.m.”
Conclusion: “Subject shows no indicators of deceptive intent. Financial situation suggests genuine need, not opportunism. Character references and behavioral history support claim of honest disclosure rather than manipulative scheme.”
Carter closed the laptop and dropped his head into his hands.
She was exactly who she said she was.
A good person who’d gotten pregnant after one night with a man whose life looked nothing like hers—and had had the courage to tell him.
And he had treated her like a threat.
His phone rang.
“Dr. Reynolds,” the doctor said. “I take it the paternity test is postponed?”
“Indefinitely,” Carter said. He stood and began pacing. “And Reynolds—set up a full prenatal care package. Top‑tier everything. Send the information to Ms. Spencer’s address.”
“Of course,” the doctor said. “And sir—for what it’s worth, she looked genuinely unwell last night. I’d recommend regular checkups.”
“I know,” Carter replied, rubbing his face. “I know.”
After hanging up, he stared at his phone for a long moment before opening his messages.
What could he possibly say?
Sorry for doubting you.
Sorry for investigating your entire life.
Sorry for being exactly the kind of paranoid man you accused me of being.
He started typing and deleting, typing and deleting, until finally he settled on: “I read the report. You were right about everything. I’m sorry.”
The message showed as delivered.
Then read.
No response came.
Natalie made it three blocks from Sullivan Tower before the tears came in earnest.
She ducked into a coffee shop, ordered tea she didn’t want, and tried to pull herself together.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from Carter.
She read it, felt something twist in her chest, and shoved the phone back in her purse without responding.
What was she supposed to say?
Thanks for confirming I’m not a con artist.
Glad your investigation proved I’m just a broke translator with terrible timing.
The humiliation burned.
He’d investigated her. Actually hired someone to dig through her life, her finances, her history.
She understood why, logically. She did.
Understanding didn’t make it hurt less.
Her phone buzzed again.
Charlotte: “Where are you? Are you okay? Your grandma called, worried.”
Right.
She’d told Gran she was running errands and might be late.
That was yesterday morning.
Before she’d spent nine hours on a sidewalk.
Before she’d collapsed.
Before she’d woken up in a billionaire’s guest room.
“I’m fine,” she texted back. “Long story. Coming home soon.”
Charlotte responded immediately.
“I’m at your apartment with bagels. Get here soon or I’m eating yours.”
Despite everything, Natalie smiled.
Charlotte had been her best friend since seventh grade, when Natalie had been the scholarship girl with the dead mom and the recovering‑addict grandmother, and Charlotte had been the rich girl with the private driver and the designer shoes who’d decided they were going to be friends and hadn’t taken no for an answer.
The friendship had survived everything: different schools, different tax brackets, Charlotte’s parents’ initial disapproval.
Charlotte didn’t care about money or status.
She just cared about people.
Which made what Natalie had to tell her even harder.
Forty minutes later, Natalie walked into the tiny Brooklyn apartment she shared with Gran to find Charlotte sprawled on the couch, eating a bagel, while Gran puttered in the kitchen making tea.
“Finally,” Charlotte said, springing to her feet. “I’ve been waiting for—” She stopped, taking in Natalie’s pale face. “Oh, honey. What happened?”
That was all it took.
Natalie dissolved into tears for the second time that day, which was really starting to become a pattern.
Gran appeared with tissues. Charlotte wrapped her in a hug.
Slowly, haltingly, Natalie told them everything.
The gala. The night with Carter. The missed number. The positive pregnancy test. The attempt to tell him. The collapse. His suspicions. The investigation.
“He investigated you?” Charlotte’s voice went dangerously quiet.
“Language,” Gran warned automatically, though her own expression was thunderous.
“No, it’s fine,” Natalie said, wiping her eyes. “He had reasons. A woman lied to him before. About a pregnancy. I… I get why he’s cautious.”
“Cautious is one thing,” Charlotte snapped. “Treating you like a criminal is another.”
She paced the small living room.
“I’m going to call him. I’m going to—”
“You’re going to do nothing,” Natalie interrupted.
“Nat—”
“This is my situation. My mess. I’ll handle it.”
“By yourself?” Charlotte demanded.
“I’ve handled worse by myself,” Natalie said bitterly.
Gran and Charlotte exchanged a look—the kind that said they were both remembering eight‑year‑old Natalie at her mother’s funeral, teenage Natalie working two jobs, twenty‑something Natalie building a freelance career from scratch.
“You don’t have to do everything alone,” Gran said softly, settling on the couch beside her. “That’s what family is for.”
“And friends,” Charlotte added. “Annoying, persistent friends who won’t leave you alone even when you try to push them away.”
Natalie managed a watery laugh.
“You’re not annoying,” she said.
“Lies,” Charlotte scoffed. “I’m extremely annoying. It’s my best quality.”
She sobered.
“So what’s the plan?” she asked. “Are you going to let him do the paternity test?”
“Eventually,” Natalie said. “When I’m ready. On my terms.”
Her hand drifted to her stomach.
“But I’m keeping this baby either way,” she added quietly. “With or without him.”
“Of course you are,” Gran said, squeezing her hand. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”
“Even if the father thinks I’m after his money,” Natalie muttered.
“He doesn’t think that,” Charlotte said firmly. “If he did, he wouldn’t have apologized. Wouldn’t have sent that text. He’s just scared and not thinking clearly. Men usually aren’t.”
“Hey,” Gran protested. “Your grandfather was a man.”
“My grandfather was the exception that proves the rule,” Charlotte said.
She turned back to Natalie.
“Look, I’m not defending him,” she said. “What he did was wrong. But I’ve seen you two together.”
“You haven’t,” Natalie pointed out. “It was one night.”
“I saw the way he looked at you at the gala,” Charlotte said. “Like you were the only person in the room. Like he’d been looking for you his whole life and finally found you.”
Her expression softened.
“That kind of connection doesn’t just disappear,” she said.
“Connection doesn’t matter if there’s no trust,” Natalie said.
“Then make him earn it back,” Charlotte said bluntly. “Make him work for it. But don’t shut the door completely.”
She pulled out her phone.
“And speaking of doors,” she said, “I’m texting him your prenatal appointment schedule. If he wants to be involved, he can start by showing up when it matters.”
“Charlotte—”
“Too late,” Charlotte said, thumbs flying. “Already sent. You can thank me later.”
Natalie wanted to argue, wanted to insist she could handle this alone.
But the truth was, she was terrified.
Terrified of being a single mother.
Terrified of raising a child without support.
Terrified of her baby growing up wondering why their father didn’t want them.
Her phone buzzed.
Carter: “I’ll be at every appointment. Every ultrasound. Every checkup. If you’ll let me.”
She stared at the message for a long time before responding.
“First appointment is next Wednesday. 2 p.m. Dr. Sarah Chen at Brooklyn Women’s Health. Don’t be late.”
His response was immediate.
“I’ll be there.”
Despite everything—the hurt, the anger, the disappointment—Natalie felt the tiniest flicker of hope.
Carter arrived at Brooklyn Women’s Health at 1:47 p.m.—thirteen minutes early.
He’d left a board meeting mid‑presentation, much to his CFO’s horror, and ridden across Brooklyn with Marcus driving only slightly above the legal speed limit.
Now he sat in his Bentley, staring at the unassuming medical building and trying to remember how to breathe like a normal human being.
He was going to see his baby.
Maybe.
Probably.
The appointment was at ten weeks, which meant there should be something visible, something real.
If she even let him in the room.
He’d sent flowers—six arrangements over the past week. Each one had been rejected and returned by an apologetic delivery person who reported that “the lady said absolutely not.”
He’d tried calling: voicemail.
Texting: one‑word responses when she replied at all.
He’d even shown up at her apartment—only to have her grandmother open the door, look at him with heartbreaking disappointment, and say, “She’ll talk to you when she’s ready. Not before.”
So he’d waited. Done his work. Sat through meetings.
And thought about Natalie approximately every thirty seconds.
The passenger door opened, making him jump.
Natalie slid in, looking wary.
“You’re early,” she said.
“You’re earlier,” he said. “I’ve been here thirteen minutes.”
“I’ve been in the waiting room for twenty,” she said.
They stared at each other.
His brain helpfully short‑circuited at the sight of her—hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, wearing jeans and a soft sweater that made her look impossibly young. Beautiful. Tired.
“You look exhausted,” he blurted.
“Wow,” she said. “Every woman’s dream compliment.”
But there was the ghost of a smile on her lips.
“You try growing a human while translating German contract law,” she added. “It’s a vibe.”
“You’re still working?” he asked.
“Bills don’t pay themselves,” she said. “And before you offer—” She held up a hand. “I don’t want your money.”
“I wasn’t going to offer money,” he said. “I was going to offer to reduce your workload. You shouldn’t be stressed right now.”
“I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” she said. “Women work through pregnancies all the time.”
“Not women who collapsed from exhaustion a week ago,” he said.
Her jaw set in a familiar stubborn line.
“Are we going to fight in your car,” she asked, “or are we going to this appointment?”
“Appointment,” he said immediately. “Definitely appointment.”
He got out and circled the car to open her door. She rolled her eyes but accepted the gesture.
The waiting room was cheerful—soft colors, parenting magazines, a play area with toys.
Carter felt massively out of place in his three‑piece suit.
He sat next to Natalie, hyperaware of the three inches of space between them.
She was reading a magazine about nursery decor with intense focus, like it contained national secrets.
“Natalie Spencer?” A nurse appeared with a clipboard.
They stood at the same time.
Carter followed Natalie down a hallway into an exam room, and suddenly reality hit him with the force of a freight train.
This was happening.
There was going to be a baby.
“First time Dad?” the nurse asked kindly, probably noticing his death grip on the chair.
“That obvious?” he asked.
“Honey, you look like you’re about to pass out,” she said. “It’s very sweet. Don’t worry. The fainting is usually Mom’s job.”
Natalie snorted from the exam table.
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