Inside the cavernous mahogany study of the Long Island estate, Guilford stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows. He rolled an unlit cigar between his long fingers, his jaw tight, his broad shoulders rigid under his white dress shirt.

The heavy double doors creaked open. Imogene walked in, her footsteps silent on the Persian rug. She carried a steaming cup of black coffee.

She set the cup on the massive desk, walked up behind Guilford, and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her body against his back.

Guilford went rigid. He reached down, peeled her hands off his stomach, and stepped away, putting the width of the desk between them.

Imogene's smile faltered. She recovered fast, her face shifting into a mask of gentle concern. "How were Isadore's latest labs?"

Guilford sank into his leather chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Worse. We have to start the process immediately."

Imogene placed both manicured hands on the desk, leaning in. "Guilford, we should use IVF. That woman... her life is a mess. Who knows what diseases she carries? Natural conception is too risky. It'll dirty you."

Guilford's hands stopped moving. He slowly raised his head. His dark eyes locked onto hers, piercing.

Imogene swallowed hard. Her gaze darted away, nervously straightening a stack of files on his desk.

"Dr. Adler was clear," Guilford said, his voice empty of warmth. "IVF has a ten percent success rate. Isadore doesn't have time for us to fail."

Imogene bit her lip, her white teeth pressing into the gloss. "I can bring in the best specialists in the country. My family's medical connections—"

Guilford slammed his Montblanc pen onto the desk.

The crack echoed like a gunshot. Imogene jumped back, her face draining of color.

Guilford stood up. His towering frame cast a long shadow over her. "This is a Gates family matter. I don't need outsiders interfering."

The word outsider hit Imogene like a physical strike. Her eyes instantly welled with tears. "I'm just trying to protect you."

"To save my son," Guilford said, his voice dropping to a brutal, absolute register, "I would sleep with the devil herself. I don't care how disgusting she is."

Imogene's chest tightened. A sick jolt of jealousy shot through her. She realized she couldn't stop the physical contact. She forced a sob, playing the victim. "I just love you so much."

Guilford waved his hand toward the door, already looking back at his laptop. "I have work. Leave."

Imogene ground her teeth together. She whispered an apology and walked out.

The second her hand touched the brass doorknob, her gentle, victimized expression vanished. Her face went cold, calculating. She stepped into the hallway and pulled the heavy door shut behind her. Pulling her phone from her designer purse, her thumb hovered over a contact. She took a deep breath, smoothing her features back into perfect elegance just as Alistair walked by.

Imogene stopped him with a raised hand. "Alistair. Find out Carissa's exact address in Queens. Immediately."

Alistair bowed his head. Imogene walked away, her heels clicking sharp and fast against the marble.

Inside the study, Guilford pressed the intercom button. "Franklin. Did she sign?"

His assistant's voice crackled through the speaker. "Yes, sir. She agreed to the natural conception. And... she didn't ask for a single cent in additional compensation."

Guilford's brow furrowed. No money? That contradicted everything he believed about her.

An irritating itch of suspicion crawled up his spine. He looked out the window at the darkening sky. He tossed the unlit cigar into the trash can, grabbed his suit jacket off the chair, and walked out. He was going to get her himself.

Night had fallen. Rain came down in sheets. Inside her cramped basement apartment, Carissa aggressively shoved her few items of clothing into a faded canvas duffel bag. The single bare bulb overhead flickered.

Suddenly, violent pounding shook her thin wooden door. Men shouted outside, hurling curses. Isiah had sent his street thugs to collect his hush money.

Carissa threw her body weight against the door, holding it shut. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She reached over to the kitchenette counter and grabbed a rusted butcher knife.

Outside, the thugs smashed her potted plants and kicked the metal trash cans. The noise was deafening.

She knew the door wouldn't hold. She slung the duffel bag over her shoulder, took a deep breath, and ripped the door open.

She lunged forward with the knife raised high, a feral scream tearing from her throat.

The thugs, three men with hard faces and bad intentions, stumbled backward. Carissa sprinted through the gap between them, bursting out into the pouring rain.

"Get that bitch!" one of them yelled.

Carissa ran down the flooded street, the heavy rain blinding her. Her lungs burned. Water sloshed over her shoes.

As she rounded a dark corner, a massive, foul-smelling drunk stepped out of an alley. He grabbed her arm, his grip crushing down instantly. His face was red and bloated, his eyes glassy and mean.

He laughed, a wet, disgusting sound, and tried to drag her into the shadows. The thugs closed in from behind.

Carissa thrashed wildly. She slammed the heavy handle of the knife into the drunk's skull. He grunted and backhanded her across the face.

The force sent Carissa flying. She crashed into a deep puddle of muddy water, scraping her palms raw on the asphalt.

The drunk lunged for her.

Suddenly, twin beams of blinding LED headlights tore through the rain.

A black armored Maybach slammed on its brakes, sending a wave of dirty water crashing over the drunk's legs.

The car door kicked open. Guilford stepped out into the storm. He wore a black trench coat, his dark hair instantly plastered to his forehead by the rain. His face was a mask of pure, murderous rage.

Before the drunk could turn around, Guilford's bodyguard materialized and kicked the man square in the chest. The drunk flew backward, hit the brick wall with a sickening crunch, and slumped to the ground, unconscious.

The thugs chasing Carissa skidded to a halt. They saw the armored car and the men in suits. They turned and ran.

Guilford walked over to where Carissa sat in the mud. He looked down at her, his jaw locked tight. Rain streamed down his sharp features.

He didn't offer his hand. Instead, he shrugged off his custom trench coat and threw it roughly over her head.

The heavy fabric engulfed her. It was warm, radiating his body heat, and smelled strongly of cedar and expensive cologne. Carissa's lips were blue. She looked up at him, stunned.

"Get in the car," Guilford ordered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Don't ruin my leather seats."

Carissa gritted her teeth. She didn't say thank you. She pulled the coat tight around her shivering body and limped into the back of the Maybach.

Guilford got in beside her. Water dripped from his hair onto his white shirt. He ordered the driver to head to Long Island, then told his guard through the window to "make sure those men learn a permanent lesson."

The cabin fell silent, save for the rain drumming on the roof. Water dripped from Carissa's hair onto the plush floor mats.

Guilford opened the mini-fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and slammed it into the cup holder in front of her.

Carissa hesitated. Then she grabbed the bottle and drank greedily. The cold water soothed her burning throat.

Guilford stared at the red handprint swelling on her cheek. "You rejected my money for those pieces of trash?" he mocked.

Carissa turned her head, staring out the rain-streaked window. "I don't have a family anymore," she said, her voice hoarse but absolute. "I only have my son."

Guilford's heart did a strange, uncomfortable stutter. He looked at her thin, rigid posture wrapped in his coat, and for the first time, he didn't have a cruel retort.

An hour later, the Maybach pulled up to the illuminated estate. Alistair was waiting with a black umbrella, his thin figure silhouetted against the mansion's golden lights.

Guilford stepped out first. "Put her in a guest room," he told the butler, and walked into the house without looking back.

Morning sunlight spilled across the Persian rug. Carissa shot up from the impossibly soft king-size bed, gasping for air.

Her hand instinctively reached under the pillow for her knife. Her fingers brushed cold silk sheets, and reality crashed back in. She was at the Gates estate.

Her phone vibrated violently on the nightstand. An unsaved number, but she recognized Isiah's digits immediately.

She took a slow breath, hit the record button, and answered. She didn't speak.

"Did you send the mob to put my guys in the hospital last night?!" Isiah roared through the speaker.

Carissa let out a dry laugh. "Those were Gates family security. They clean up garbage."

Isiah choked on his words. His tone shifted to a slimy whine. "Since you're back with the billionaire, you owe us two million. We sold that brat three years ago to make your life easier! You should be thanking me!"

Bile rose in Carissa's throat. "I'm recording this call."

Dead silence. Then Isiah exploded. "I'll go to the press! I'll tell them you abandoned your family!"

"Go ahead," Carissa snapped, her voice like cracking ice. "And I will hand this recording to the police. Extortion and human trafficking. I'll use the Gates legal team to bury you so deep you'll never see daylight again. Do not ever contact me."

She hung up and blocked the number. Her hands weren't shaking anymore.

She walked into the marble bathroom and splashed freezing water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the gold-framed mirror. Dark circles under her brown eyes. Cheekbones too sharp. She couldn't afford to be weak here.

As she dressed, her phone rang again. Her landlord.

"Your thug family destroyed my hallway!" the man screamed. "You owe me five grand in damages or I'm calling the cops!"

Yesterday, Carissa would have panicked. Today, she felt nothing.

"I'm currently staying at the Gates estate in Long Island," Carissa said, her voice tight, mimicking the cold authority she'd been subjected to since arriving. "Any bills you have? You can take them up directly with their lawyers."

The landlord's aggressive breathing stopped. "G-Gates? Oh. Uh, my apologies, Miss Molina. I'll handle it." He hung up.

Carissa smirked. Power was a useful weapon.

She stepped out of her room, determined to see Isadore. At the end of the hall, Alistair stepped into her path, holding a silver tray.

"Madam Essie has decreed you may only visit the young master for one hour at three PM," Alistair said, his chin tilted up, his thin lips pursed.

Carissa didn't back down. She stepped into the butler's personal space. "Whose house is this, Alistair?"

Alistair blinked, caught off guard. "Mr. Guilford's, of course."

"Exactly," Carissa sneered. "And Mr. Guilford brought me here to fulfill a medical contract. If my mood is ruined and it affects my ability to conceive, will you take responsibility when his son dies?"

Alistair's face turned a mottled red. He opened his mouth. No words came out. The threat of Guilford's wrath was absolute.

Carissa shoved past him, her posture radiating the authority of a woman who knew exactly what her body was worth to them.

She walked up the stairs, pushed open the nursery door, and saw Isadore sitting up slightly, holding a small stuffed rabbit.

When he saw her, his dull eyes lit up. "Mommy," he breathed.