Chapter One
Natalie
"Mrs. Winston, congratulations. You're eight weeks pregnant."
The doctor slid the test results and ultrasound image to the edge of the desk, smiling at me.
"Thank you, Doctor." I took the ultrasound, my eyes glued to that tiny outline.
God. I was going to have a baby.
Richard and I had been married for two years. Our families kept pushing us to produce an heir.
Richard was thirty-five, the new generation head of the Winston family. He needed a child—or several—to carry on his massive business empire and that even more massive surname.
I wanted a child too, but not for legacy or inheritance. I just wanted something small and warm that laughed and cried, something to fill the cold silence of the manor, something to make my marriage better, to make my life happy.
What did Richard want?
I'd always known, just refused to admit it—Richard Winston, my husband, didn't love me all that much.
Ours was an arranged marriage. I'd spent two years trying to become someone Richard could love, but around me, he was like ice that never melted.
Maybe the pregnancy would change things? Maybe he'd warm up, maybe he'd press his ear to my belly like expectant fathers did in movies—though picturing him doing something that tender felt absurd.
I left the exam room and unlocked my phone. Our last exchange was two days old.
Richard: "Arrived in Zurich. Packed meeting schedule. If it's urgent, contact my assistant."
Me: "Okay, get some rest."
Followed by a silly cat emoji he probably never opened.
Should I tell him about the pregnancy now?
My thumb hovered over the screen. I took a breath and started typing.
"I haven't been feeling well lately, so I went to the hospital today. I..."
Deleted.
"Richard, there's something I need to tell you..."
Deleted again. Too stiff.
Then I tried writing something playful, even though he rarely played along.
"Guess what new role you're being promoted to? Hint: not a corporate merger."
I stared at those words and felt my mouth twitch.
Pathetic.
He'd probably send back a question mark, or just call and say in that business-transaction tone, "Natalie, get to the point."
I was still staring at the screen when the VIP elevator chimed. Then, from down the hall, came a low, familiar voice. "How is she?"
Ethelred Hospital's top-floor VIP wing had strict access control. Anyone up here either had money or status. Running into some bigshot wouldn't be surprising.
