PART ONE – THE GIRL OUTSIDE SULLIVAN TOWER
The receptionist’s perfectly manicured nail tapped against the edge of her desk as she glanced at the clock for the hundredth time that afternoon. 5:30 p.m. Finally.
Margaret Chen gathered her designer purse and stood, smoothing her pencil skirt with practiced precision. Through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows of Sullivan Enterprises’ Manhattan lobby, she could still see the woman standing on the sidewalk across the street, still there the way she’d been all day. Margaret allowed herself a small, satisfied smirk.
The girl was pretty—she’d give her that. Natural beauty, the kind that didn’t need the three layers of foundation Margaret wore to achieve “effortless” flawlessness. Glossy dark hair that caught the late afternoon sun, delicate features, and an almost ethereal quality that had sparked an ugly twist of envy in Margaret’s chest the moment she’d laid eyes on her that morning.
Which was exactly why Margaret had been so thoroughly, deliciously cruel. The memory still warmed her. The young woman had approached the reception desk at 8:45 sharp, her voice soft and trembling.
“I need to speak with Mr. Sullivan, please. Carter Sullivan.
It’s… it’s urgent.”
Margaret had looked her up and down with deliberate slowness, taking in the simple cotton dress, the worn but clean sneakers, the complete absence of designer labels. Not their usual clientele. Not even close.
“Mr. Sullivan doesn’t see anyone without an appointment,” Margaret had said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “And his schedule is booked solid for the next six months.”
“Please,” the woman had whispered.
“I just need five minutes. It’s personal.”
“Personal?” Margaret’s laugh had been sharp. “Mr.
Sullivan doesn’t do personal visits at the office. Company policy. And you can’t wait here.” She’d lowered her voice into a mock‑apologetic purr.
“Security regulations.”
She’d practically herded the girl toward the doors, watching with satisfaction as confusion and hurt flickered across that pretty face. The security guards had looked uncomfortable, but they hadn’t intervened. Of course they hadn’t.
Margaret had worked at Sullivan Enterprises for five years. She knew the rules—or at least, she knew how to bend them when it suited her purposes. Now, ten hours later, the girl was still there.
Margaret pushed through the revolving doors into the cooling New York evening and paused, studying the figure across the street. The woman was swaying slightly, one hand pressed against the building’s stone façade as if she needed the support. She looked pale.
Exhausted. Good, Margaret thought viciously. Maybe she’ll finally give up and leave Mr.
Sullivan alone. She didn’t know why she felt such fierce protectiveness over a man who barely noticed her existence. Carter Sullivan was so far above her pay grade it was laughable, but she’d nurtured a careful fantasy over the years, one where he would finally look up from his endless meetings and see her.
Really see her. This woman, with her simple clothes and desperate eyes, threatened that fantasy in ways Margaret couldn’t quite articulate. “Pathetic,” Margaret muttered, turning toward the parking garage.
She didn’t look back. Natalie Spencer’s vision was starting to blur at the edges, a gray fog creeping into her peripheral vision like an unwelcome guest. She pressed her palm harder against the cool stone of the building behind her, willing her knees to lock, her legs to hold just a little longer.
Just until he comes out, she told herself. Just until I can see his face. The baby—she couldn’t call it anything else now, not after seeing those two pink lines—was barely the size of a lemon, but it felt like it was already taking everything from her.
Her energy. Her appetite. Her ability to stand upright for more than a few hours without feeling like she might crumble.
She hadn’t eaten since yesterday. The thought of food made her stomach revolt, and the anxiety had been so overwhelming she’d barely managed to keep down water. But she’d known she had to do this.
Had to tell him. Carter Sullivan. Even his name sent a complicated tangle of emotions through her chest.
Desire, anger, hope, despair. The memory of his hands on her skin, the sound of his laugh against her ear, the way he’d looked at her like she was the only person in the universe—It all felt like a fever dream now. Something too perfect to be real.
Maybe it hadn’t been real. Maybe for him it had just been another night with another woman. But the baby was real.
The baby was very, very real. Natalie’s hand drifted to her still‑flat stomach, a protective gesture she’d been making unconsciously for days. Two months.
It had been two months since that night. Two months since the most incredible and terrifying experience of her twenty‑six years on this planet. She’d been so stupid.
So recklessly, beautifully stupid. Her best friend Charlotte had dragged her to that charity gala, insisting she needed to get out more and stop being a hermit. “You translate French contracts in your grandma’s Brooklyn apartment and talk to no one but your laptop,” Charlotte had complained.
“You need champagne, music, and bad decisions.”
Natalie had protested that she didn’t belong in that world of champagne towers and thousand‑dollar dresses. She was a freelance translator who worked from her grandmother’s tiny rent‑controlled place, surviving on instant ramen and the occasional splurge at the Thai place down the street. But Charlotte came from money—real Upper East Side money—and she’d bought Natalie a dress.
Elegant, simple, borrowed. She’d refused to take no for an answer. “You’re brilliant and gorgeous, and you spend too much time alone with French legal documents,” Charlotte had said.
“Live a little.”
So Natalie had lived. And look where it got her. The moment Carter Sullivan’s eyes had met hers across that glittering Manhattan ballroom, something had shifted in the air.
He’d been surrounded by important‑looking people, tall and commanding in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. But when he looked at her, everyone else had simply disappeared. He’d crossed the room like a man on a mission, and when he’d smiled—God, when he’d smiled—Natalie had forgotten how to breathe.
They’d talked for hours about everything and nothing. He’d made her laugh so hard she’d snorted champagne, which should have been mortifying, but instead had made him laugh even harder. The chemistry between them had been like a living thing, crackling and urgent and impossible to ignore.
When he’d leaned down and whispered, “Come with me,” she hadn’t hesitated. The hotel room had been beautiful, the kind of luxury New York hotel that made her anxiety spike for approximately ten seconds before his mouth had found hers and thinking became impossible. He’d been gentle and focused, attentive in ways she hadn’t known existed outside the kind of romances people talk about more discreetly online.
He’d taken his time, listening to every nervous breath, every hesitant yes, treating her heart as carefully as her body. It had been her first time, and he’d held her afterward when she’d unexpectedly cried—not from pain, but from the overwhelming intimacy of it all. They’d stayed awake until dawn, bodies tangled in silk sheets, sharing secrets and dreams and kisses that tasted like promises.
And then his phone had rung. She’d watched his face transform from soft and open to hard and terrified in the space of a heartbeat. His father was in the hospital.
Critical condition. He’d dressed in seconds, kissing her forehead, promising he’d be back, promising this wasn’t over. But in his panic, he’d forgotten to leave his number, and she’d been too shocked, too overwhelmed to think to ask.
When she’d woken up alone hours later, the sheets still smelling like him, she’d felt the first cold fingers of doubt curl around her heart. He was Carter Sullivan. Billionaire entrepreneur.
CEO of Sullivan Enterprises. She’d looked him up afterward, seen the articles, the photos of him with beautiful women at charity events and business galas all over New York and beyond. He lived in a world so far removed from hers they might as well have been on different planets.
Maybe he regretted it. Maybe it had been a moment of weakness, a night of slumming it with the regular people. Maybe he’d woken up relieved that she hadn’t left her number, that he could forget the whole thing ever happened.
Pride had kept her from seeking him out. Pride and fear and the bone‑deep certainty that she couldn’t survive being rejected by him. Until the test had shown positive.
Until she’d realized she was carrying his child. That changed everything. He deserved to know.
She’d spent weeks gathering courage, rehearsing what she’d say. She’d looked up the address of Sullivan Enterprises’ headquarters in midtown Manhattan, arrived early, her heart hammering against her ribs. And that receptionist—that cruel, beautiful woman—had looked at her like she was dirt on her shoe.
Natalie had tried to explain, had tried to convey the urgency without revealing too much. But the woman’s eyes had been as cold as polished marble, and before Natalie knew what was happening, she was being escorted out by security guards who wouldn’t meet her gaze. So she’d waited.
What else could she do? Carter had to leave eventually. Had to see her eventually.
She’d stand here all day if she had to. She just hadn’t accounted for how weak she’d feel. How the humid New York summer would drain her.
How her vision would start to swim and her knees would start to buckle. The glass doors of Sullivan Enterprises burst open. And suddenly he was there.
Carter Sullivan in the flesh. More devastating than she remembered. Taller somehow, his shoulders broader, his presence more commanding.
He was surrounded by people in expensive suits, talking rapid‑fire about numbers and projections and quarterly reports. He looked nothing like the man who’d laughed at her terrible jokes and kissed her like she was oxygen and he was drowning. Natalie tried to move forward, tried to call out his name, but her legs had other ideas.
Her vision was going black, and the last thing she registered before the world tilted sideways was the sound of someone shouting. Then nothing. Carter Sullivan had been in the middle of explaining why the Henderson merger needed to close by Friday when Marcus, his head of security, made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut.
“Sir—someone just collapsed right in front of the building.”
Carter’s first instinct was to keep walking. He had seventeen more items on today’s agenda, a video call with Tokyo in twenty minutes, and a headache that felt like someone was using his skull for percussion practice. But something in Marcus’s voice—alarm, urgency, something else—made him stop.
“Where?” Carter demanded. “There. By the east entrance.
A woman—”
Carter didn’t hear the rest. He was already running, his expensive Italian shoes slapping against the pavement, his entourage scrambling to keep up. A small crowd had gathered, but they parted when they saw him coming, probably recognizing the six‑foot‑three frame and the expression that made grown executives panic in board meetings.
And then he saw her. The world stopped. Every sound faded to white noise.
Every person disappeared. There was only her. Crumpled on the concrete like a broken doll.
Dark hair spilling across the gray stone. Face so pale it was almost translucent. “No.
No, no, no.”
“Natalie,” he breathed, and the name tore out of him like a prayer. He was on his knees beside her before he remembered deciding to move, gathering her into his arms with a tenderness that felt like muscle memory. Her head lolled against his shoulder.
She was so light. Too light. “Sir, should we call an ambulance?” Marcus hovered, radio already in hand.
“No. My car. Now.”
Carter stood in one smooth motion, cradling her against his chest like she was made of glass.
Her head tucked perfectly under his chin, and some broken part of him wanted to sob at how right she felt there. “Clear a path,” he snapped. “Move.”
People scattered.
Good. He didn’t have patience for obstacles right now. Not when she was unconscious in his arms, not when he could feel how rapidly her heart was racing against his chest like a frightened bird.
The back of his Bentley was temperature‑controlled luxury, but Carter barely noticed as he slid in with Natalie still pressed against him. He couldn’t seem to let her go, couldn’t stop running his fingers through her hair, checking her pulse, touching her face like he needed to confirm she was real. “Drive,” he ordered his driver.
“My apartment. Fast.”
“Sir, the hospital might be—”
“My apartment,” Carter repeated. “My private physician is on call.
Go.”
The car surged forward into Manhattan traffic. Carter cradled Natalie’s face in his palm, thumbs brushing her too‑sharp cheekbones. She looked exhausted, like she’d been through hell and barely survived.
What happened to you? Where have you been? Two months.
It had been two months, three weeks, and four days since he’d woken up in that hospital room after his father’s death and realized he had no idea how to find her. He didn’t know her last name. He didn’t know where she lived or worked.
He didn’t even know if the first name she’d given him—Natalie—had been real. He’d spent thousands of dollars on private investigators with nothing but a first name and the name of a Manhattan charity gala to work with. Every dead end had felt like another nail driven into his chest.
And now here she was, unconscious in his arms, looking like she hadn’t eaten or slept in weeks. Why was she here? How had she found him?
His penthouse occupied the top three floors of Sullivan Tower, accessible only by private elevator. Carter swept through the doors and laid Natalie on his bed with excruciating care, arranging pillows beneath her head, smoothing her hair back from her face. “Dr.
Reynolds is five minutes out,” Marcus reported from the doorway. “What do you need?”
“Water. Food.
Something gentle. Broth, crackers, whatever,” Carter said tightly. “And find out how long she was standing outside my building.
I want security footage. I want to know when she arrived and why no one let her in.”
His voice had gone deadly quiet, which his employees knew was far more dangerous than yelling. “Right away, sir.”
Carter sank into the chair beside the bed, unable to look away from her.
God, she was beautiful. Even pale and exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes like bruises, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He’d thought about her every day—every single day—since she’d disappeared from his life like smoke.
The way she’d laughed at his terrible jokes. The way she’d looked at him like he was more than just his bank account or his last name. The way she’d felt in his arms, soft and warm and perfect.
It had terrified him. That night with her had been… everything. He’d never felt anything like it.
The connection had been instant and overwhelming, like coming home to a place he’d never been. He’d never been so present with another person. Never felt so seen.
And then his father had called, voice weak and fading, saying this was it, come now, and Carter had thrown on his clothes with shaking hands and run. He’d meant to come back. He’d intended to return to that hotel room, to the woman who’d looked at him like he was a miracle, to figure out what in the world this thing between them was.
But his father had died at 4:47 a.m., and in the chaos and grief that followed—planning a funeral, managing his father’s estate, suddenly becoming responsible for two traumatized teenagers and a company worth billions—time had blurred. He’d gotten back to the hotel three days later, only to find she’d checked out. No forwarding address.
No contact information. Nothing. The private investigators had hit wall after wall.
The charity gala’s guest list had been extensive. “Natalie” alone had yielded seventeen possibilities, none of whom matched her description. The friend she’d mentioned—Charlotte something—had proven equally elusive.
It was like she’d never existed at all. He’d started to wonder if he’d imagined her. If grief and exhaustion had conjured a perfect woman with kind eyes and a laugh that made his chest ache.
Maybe she’d been too good to be true. But she was here now. Real and solid and in his bed.
Why? Dr. Reynolds arrived with his usual efficiency, examining Natalie with practiced hands while Carter hovered like an anxious ghost.
“Dehydration,” the doctor announced. “Exhaustion. When’s the last time she ate?”
“I don’t know,” Carter admitted.
“She needs fluids, rest, and food. In that order,” the doctor said. “I’m setting up an IV.
She should wake within the hour.”
He glanced at Carter. “Any idea what caused this?”
“No,” Carter said, jaw clenching. “But I’m going to find out.”
True to prediction, Natalie’s eyes fluttered open forty‑seven minutes later.
Carter was still in the chair beside the bed, unable to move, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest like it was the only thing tethering him to Earth. Her gaze found him immediately, and even confused and disoriented, the recognition in her eyes hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. She knew him.
She’d come looking for him specifically. “Where…?” Her voice came out scratchy. “My apartment,” he said.
“You collapsed outside Sullivan Tower.”
He wanted to touch her so badly his hands ached. “What were you doing outside my building?”
She blinked, processing, and then something shifted in her expression. Fear.
Determination. Resignation. All tangled together.
She pushed herself up on shaky arms, and Carter immediately moved to help, adjusting the pillows behind her. She looked at him for a long moment. Those eyes—God, those eyes that had haunted his dreams—were full of something he couldn’t read.
And then she said it. Blurted it out like ripping off a bandage. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered.
“It’s yours. I spent all day waiting to tell you.”
The room tilted. Carter heard the words, understood them individually, but together they formed a sentence his brain couldn’t quite process.
Pregnant. Yours. All day waiting.
His mind spun through possibilities, implications, every emotion at once until it all blurred into white noise. She was pregnant with his child. His immediate instinct was joy.
Pure, uncomplicated joy that crashed through him like a wave. He was going to be a father. Natalie was here, carrying his baby, and everything in him wanted to pull her close and never let go.
But then another feeling rose up. Cold. Familiar.
Doubt. Three years ago, a woman named Vanessa Hartley had shown up at his office with ultrasound photos and tears and a story about being pregnant with his child. He’d believed her.
Supported her. Started planning a future. Until the pregnancy had ended at a very convenient time and it came out that there had never been a pregnancy at all—just forged medical documents and a woman who’d been paid by a rival company to destroy his reputation and distract him during a crucial merger.
The scandal had been brutal. The betrayal had been worse. Carter looked at Natalie—sweet, kind Natalie, who’d disappeared for two months without a trace—and hated himself for what he was thinking.
But he’d been fooled before, lied to before, and he had two siblings depending on him now, a company to protect, a legacy to preserve. “Why didn’t you contact me before today?” The words came out harder than he intended. Something flickered in her eyes.
Hurt. “I tried,” she said hoarsely. “Today.
Your receptionist wouldn’t let me in. She said you don’t see anyone without appointments.”
“So you waited outside all day without food or water?” The anger in his voice surprised him—at her, at the situation, at himself. He wasn’t sure.
“I didn’t know how else to reach you,” she said, lifting her chin. “You didn’t leave a number when you ran out that night.”
The accusation stung because it was fair. “My father was dying,” he said quietly.
“I know that now. I didn’t know it then,” she replied, her hands clasped in her lap, knuckles white. “I’m not here to blame you or ask for anything.
You just… you deserve to know. That’s all.”
Carter stood, needing to move, needing to think. His mind was racing through logistics, possibilities, outcomes.
“How far along?”
“Eight weeks,” she answered. The timeline matched their night together. But timelines could be manipulated.
He’d learned that the hard way. God, he hated himself. Hated the cold calculation creeping into his thoughts when all he wanted was to trust her, to believe her, to pull her into his arms and tell her everything would be okay.
But people had tried to destroy him before, and they’d use any weapon. “I want a paternity test,” he said finally. The words dropped into the room like stones.
The silence that followed stretched so long that Natalie wondered if she’d actually heard him correctly. Maybe her exhausted brain had scrambled the words. Maybe he’d said something else entirely.
But no—the look on his face, distant and controlled, told her she’d heard exactly right. “A paternity test,” she repeated, her voice flat. “Yes.”
Something inside her cracked.
Not broke—breaking would come later. This was just the first hairline fracture in what would eventually become a complete shattering. “Of course,” she said.
She was proud of how steady her voice sounded. “I expected that.”
It was a lie. She hadn’t expected it at all.
In her naive, foolish heart, she’d imagined… what? That he’d be happy? That he’d pull her close and kiss her and tell her everything would be okay?
That the man who’d held her so tenderly, who’d whispered soft words in the dark, who’d looked at her like she was precious, would believe her? Stupid. So incredibly stupid.
“I’ll arrange for the test tomorrow,” Carter said, and was it her imagination or did he sound relieved, like he’d been bracing for an argument? “Dr. Reynolds can handle it discreetly.”
“Fine.” Natalie swung her legs over the side of the bed, ignoring how the room tilted slightly.
The IV was still in her arm, but she didn’t care. She needed to leave. “I’ll go now.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” Carter’s hand shot out, catching her wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop her.
“You collapsed. You’re dehydrated. You haven’t eaten.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” he said.
“You’re pregnant, and you spent all day in the sun without food or water. That’s not fine.”
“Why do you care?” The words burst out before she could stop them. “You don’t even believe it’s yours.
You think I’m lying, so why does it matter?”
Something flashed in his eyes—pain maybe, or guilt—but it was gone before she could be sure. “Because if you are pregnant, if that baby is mine, then you’re both my responsibility,” he said quietly. “And I take care of what’s mine.”
The possessiveness in his tone should have annoyed her, should have made her bristle, but instead it did something complicated to her chest, made her heart do a stupid little flip she didn’t have time for.
“I’m not yours,” she said softly. “The baby might be.”
“Might be,” he echoed. She laughed, and it sounded broken.
“Right. Of course.”
Carter’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowned, then looked back at her.
“I need to make a call,” he said. “Stay here. Eat something.
There’s food coming up.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care. You need to eat.” He was already heading toward the door. “Don’t leave this apartment, Natalie.
I mean it.”
And then he was gone, leaving her alone in his massive bedroom with its floor‑to‑ceiling windows overlooking New York City and its enormous bed that probably cost more than her yearly rent. Natalie looked down at her hands. They were shaking.
What had she expected? Really, truly, what had she expected when she decided to come here today? Carter Sullivan was a billionaire.
A man who lived in a different stratosphere entirely. The fact that they’d shared one magical night didn’t change the fundamental reality of their situations. He was powerful and wealthy and surrounded by people who wanted things from him.
Of course he’d be suspicious. Of course he’d want proof. But it still hurt.
It hurt so much more than she’d thought possible. A knock at the door made her jump. A man in a white chef’s coat entered with a tray.
“Soup, crackers, fruit, water,” he said kindly. He set it on the nightstand. “Mr.
Sullivan insisted you eat, miss. The soup is gentle on the stomach. And there’s ginger tea for nausea.”
“Thank you,” Natalie managed.
When he left, she stared at the food. Her stomach growled despite everything. When was the last time she’d eaten?
Yesterday morning? She couldn’t remember. The anxiety about coming here had stolen her appetite completely.
The soup was delicious—some kind of vegetable broth with soft noodles. She ate slowly, mechanically, and tried not to think about Carter’s expression when she’d told him about the pregnancy. That flash of joy she’d seen before the shutters came down.
She hadn’t imagined that. She was sure she hadn’t. He’d been happy.
For maybe three seconds. Then the doubt had crept in. What had happened to him to make him so mistrustful?
In his study, Carter listened to Marcus’s report with mounting fury that had nowhere to go but inward. “Security footage shows she arrived at 8:42 a.m., sir,” Marcus said. “She approached the front desk at 8:45.
Ms. Chen spoke with her for approximately ninety seconds before escorting her out. The subject then positioned herself across the street and remained there for the next nine hours and sixteen minutes.”
“Nine hours,” Carter repeated, voice dangerously quiet.
“She stood outside my building for nine hours without food, without water. Pregnant.”
“It appears so, sir.”
“And Margaret Chen turned her away.”
“According to the footage, yes. Ms.
Chen appeared to be… dismissive.”
“Dismissive.” Carter replayed the footage on his laptop, watching Natalie approach the desk with her shoulders squared despite obvious nervousness. Watching Margaret’s face transform into something cold and cruel. Watching Natalie’s expression crumble.
Watching her stand outside his building for hours in the summer heat, swaying on her feet, pressing her hand against the wall for support. All because she wanted to tell him he was going to be a father. The guilt was a living thing, clawing at his insides.
She’d told him the truth about trying to reach him. About being turned away. About waiting all day.
But that didn’t mean she was telling the truth about everything else. God, he hated this. Hated the suspicion that had become second nature.
Hated that he couldn’t just trust her. “Find out everything about Margaret Chen,” he said. “Why she turned Natalie away.
Whether there was any communication beforehand. Anything suspicious.”
“Already on it, sir,” Marcus replied. He hesitated.
“And about Ms. Spencer… the investigation you requested. The preliminary report should be ready by morning.”
Right.
The investigation. Carter had sent Natalie’s first name and the little he knew about her to his private investigator the moment he’d recognized her unconscious on the sidewalk, before he’d even known about the pregnancy. Just a gut instinct to know everything about the woman who’d haunted him for two months.
Now it felt dirty. Invasive. Like a betrayal.
Necessary, the cold part of his brain insisted. You need to know who she really is. “Send it when it’s ready,” he said, and hated himself a little more.
When he returned to the bedroom, Natalie had finished eating. She was standing by the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the city lights. She looked small.
Fragile. Beautiful. “Better?” he asked quietly.
She didn’t turn around. “Thank you for the food.”
“You should rest,” he said. “The guest room is made up.
Or… you can stay here. I’ll take the couch.”
“I should go home.”
“Not tonight.” Carter moved closer, unable to help himself. “It’s late.
You’re exhausted. Please just stay. One night.”
She finally turned to look at him, and the expression on her face gutted him.
It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even hurt. It was resignation.
Like she’d expected disappointment and he’d delivered exactly that. “One night,” she agreed quietly. “But then I’m leaving.”
“We’ll talk about that tomorrow.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said.
“You’ll do your test, get your results, and then—” She shrugged. “Then you’ll either believe me or you won’t.”
“Natalie—”
“I’m tired, Carter. Can you just show me where I’m sleeping?”
He wanted to argue.
Wanted to explain about Vanessa, about the betrayal, about why he was this way. But the exhaustion in her eyes stopped him. “This way,” he said instead.
The guest room was down the hall, spacious and elegant, with its own bathroom and a bed that looked like a cloud. Natalie walked in without a word, and Carter found himself hovering in the doorway like an idiot. “If you need anything…”
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
“There are clothes in the closet?”
“My assistant keeps the guest room stocked.”
“Okay.”
“And if you get hungry again, the kitchen—”
“Carter.” She finally looked at him. Really looked at him. “I’m not going to rob you in the middle of the night.
I’m not going to trash your apartment or steal your valuables or whatever you’re worried about. I’m just going to sleep. That’s all.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he said.
“Then what are you worried about?”
You, he wanted to say. I’m worried about you. About how pale you look.
About how you stood outside my building for nine hours because you had no other way to reach me. About how badly I want to believe you, and how terrified I am to do it. What came out instead was, “Just… rest well.”
And then he closed the door before he could do something reckless like beg her to believe he wasn’t the monster he was acting like.
In the hallway, Carter leaned against the wall and tried to breathe. She was here. Under his roof.
Possibly carrying his child. After two months of searching, of wondering, she’d walked right up to his building, and he’d had her turned away. His phone buzzed with an email: the preliminary report from his investigator.
Carter stared at it for a long moment before opening it—and hated himself just a little more. PART TWO – TRUST, DOUBT, AND A HEARTBEAT
Natalie woke at 3:00 a.m. with her stomach staging a full‑scale rebellion.
She barely made it to the bathroom before losing the meager dinner she’d managed to keep down. Morning sickness, she’d discovered, was a cruel misnomer. It struck whenever it wanted to, with a viciousness that left her weak and shaking.
She was crouched on the cool marble floor, forehead pressed against her arm, when she heard the knock. “Natalie? Are you okay?” Carter’s voice.
Of course. Because apparently this situation wasn’t humiliating enough already. “I’m fine,” she croaked.
“Go away.”
The door opened anyway—because apparently “go away” translated to “please come watch this” in billionaire. “I said I’m—” She looked up, intending to unleash every ounce of irritation she had left and stopped. Carter was standing in the doorway in soft pajama pants, hair disheveled, eyes worried.
He was holding a mug. “Is that… ginger tea?” she asked weakly. “How did you know?” he said, coming in to set it on the counter.
“Because I practically live on it now,” she muttered. He wetted a washcloth, kneeling beside her to press it gently against her forehead. The gesture was so gentle, so unexpected, that Natalie felt tears prick her eyes, which was ridiculous.
She was not going to cry over a washcloth. “I’m a mess,” she muttered instead. “You’re pregnant,” he countered.
“There’s a difference.”
“Same result,” she said. “Messiness.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Drink the tea,” he urged.
“It helps.”
She sipped it carefully, the warmth spreading through her chest. “You keep ginger tea on hand for your pregnant guests?” she asked. “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.
What happened next changed everything…
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