The sound of the shower stopped.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Kayson walked out, a white towel wrapped low around his waist. He was aggressively rubbing another towel through his damp hair.

He tossed the smaller towel onto a single armchair and looked up.

His dark eyes landed precisely on the crumpled divorce agreement clutched in Charlie's hands.

There was no flicker of guilt in his gaze. No hesitation. His eyes just narrowed into a cold, calculating slit.

He walked past her, his bare feet silent on the rug, and headed straight for the nightstand in the master bedroom.

He pulled open the top drawer.

He reached deep inside and pulled out a small, unopened cardboard box.

He walked back into the living room and tossed the box onto the glass coffee table in front of Charlie.

It slid across the smooth surface, hitting the edge of a fruit bowl with a sharp clack.

Charlie looked down.

The giant, bold letters on the packaging screamed at her: Plan B.

Her pupils dilated. It felt like a massive, invisible hand had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart until it was ready to burst.

She slowly lifted her head, staring at the man who had just used her body.

Kayson stood over her, a towering figure of absolute indifference.

"Take it," he commanded. His voice held zero warmth.

Charlie bit her swollen lip. Her voice trembled, raw and broken. "And if I don't?"

Kayson let out a dark, humorless laugh. He leaned forward, planting both hands flat on the glass table, bringing his face inches from hers.

"The prenup is very clear, Charlie," he whispered, his breath fanning her face. "If you try to get pregnant behind my back, I will trigger the most severe legal clauses. You will walk away with absolutely nothing. And you will never, ever see that child."

The words were surgical blades, slicing through the last remaining thread of hope she had clinging to her soul.

She stopped breathing. The blood in her veins turned to ice.

She took a deep breath, forcing the tears back down her throat. The agonizing pain in her chest slowly morphed into a terrifying, hollow numbness. Hot, stinging tears threatened to spill over her lashes, but she viciously forced them back down. She stared at the harsh, unforgiving lines of Kayson's face, and a sudden, desperate clarity washed over her. She would do anything to protect the life inside her. She had to outsmart him. She had to put on the performance of her life.

Charlie reached out. Her hand was steady now.

She picked up the box of Plan B.

She popped the foil backing and tipped the small white pill into her palm.

She picked up a glass of water from the table. It was stale and room temperature.

Under Kayson's piercing stare, she tossed the pill into her mouth.

Instantly, she pushed it with her tongue, wedging it deep into the pocket between her back molar and her inner cheek.

She took a large gulp of water and swallowed hard, making sure the muscles in her throat moved visibly.

She set the glass down.

She opened her mouth, pulling her lips back to show him her empty tongue. "Satisfied?"

Kayson stared at her mouth for two long seconds. He straightened up, a look of grim satisfaction settling on his features.

He turned his back to her and walked toward the walk-in closet to get dressed.

The second he turned his head, Charlie shot up from the sofa.

She sprinted to the powder room near the entryway.

She slammed the door shut, leaned over the toilet, and spat the white pill into the water.

She hit the flush handle.

She watched the water swirl, taking the pill down the drain, while her hands gripped the edges of the sink. She was panting, her chest heaving as if she had just run a marathon.

Charlie slowly lifted her head and looked at her reflection in the mirror.

Her face was pale, her hair a mess, her lips bruised. But her eyes... her eyes were hardening into solid steel.

She walked out of the powder room.

She went back to the living room, picked up a pen from the table, and flipped to the last page of the divorce agreement.

Without a single second of hesitation, she signed her name.

The morning air was crisp.

Charlie walked out of the revolving glass doors of the penthouse building, a simple canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder.

She hailed a yellow cab and gave the driver an address on the Upper East Side.

Thirty minutes later, the cab pulled up to a quiet, tree-lined street. Charlie paid the fare and stepped out.

She pushed open the heavy glass doors of the private clinic. The faint, calming scent of lavender washed over her.

The receptionist smiled warmly, taking her ID card to confirm her appointment.

Charlie was directed to the VIP waiting area on the second floor. The plush sofas were arranged to offer maximum privacy.

She sat down in a single armchair hidden behind a massive potted Monstera plant. She picked up a maternity magazine from the side table, using it as a shield for her anxiety.

At the end of the hallway, the elevator chimed. The doors slid open.

The sharp, authoritative click of expensive leather shoes against marble echoed down the corridor.

Charlie's fingers froze on the glossy page. A sickening knot formed in her stomach.

She shifted slightly, peering through the wide green leaves of the Monstera plant.

Kayson Logan was walking down the hall. He was wearing a light gray casual suit, looking softer and more relaxed than she had seen him in years.

Tucked securely under his arm was a petite woman in a Chanel maternity dress.

Alyce Murray.

Alyce suddenly stumbled, letting out a delicate, breathless gasp.

Kayson's arm tightened instantly. He pulled her flush against his side, steadying her with frantic care. He leaned down, his voice a low, urgent murmur as he asked if she was okay.

Alyce leaned her head against his chest. She placed a hand over her slight, barely-there baby bump and offered him a sweet, helpless smile.

Kayson reached out with his other hand. He covered her hand with his, his eyes filled with an overwhelming, protective devotion.

The sight was a sledgehammer to Charlie's chest. It shattered every bone in her ribcage.

She shrank back into the depths of the armchair, biting down on her lower lip so hard she tasted blood. She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to make a sound.

He didn't hate children. He just hated the idea of a child with her.

At that exact moment, a nurse stepped into the waiting area holding a clipboard.

"Ms. Charlie Whitaker? We are ready for you," the nurse called out, her voice bright and clear.

The name echoed like a gunshot in the quiet hallway.

Down the corridor, Kayson's entire body went rigid. His head snapped toward the waiting area.

Charlie's lungs seized.

She grabbed her canvas tote, ducked low, and scrambled out from the blind spot on the other side of the plant.

She moved like a ghost, slipping into a narrow janitorial supply closet right next to the waiting area and pulling the door shut without a sound.

Kayson shoved past a chair, his long strides eating up the distance to the Monstera plant.

He stared at the empty armchair. The only thing left behind was a maternity magazine lying face down on the rug.

His jaw clenched. A dark, irritated suspicion clouded his eyes.

Alyce walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his bicep. "What is it, Kayson?" she asked softly.

Kayson tore his eyes away from the magazine. His expression hardened into ice.

"Nothing. I heard wrong," he muttered. But the muscle in his jaw twitched. He pulled out his phone with his free hand, his thumb flying across the screen to fire off a rapid text to Milo: "Pull every transaction and medical appointment under Charlie Whitaker's name in the city today. Now." Then, he placed a protective hand on the small of Alyce's back and guided her toward the chief specialist's office.

Inside the dark closet, surrounded by the sharp chemical smell of bleach and floor wax, Charlie stood with her back pressed against the door, gasping for air, the tears finally drying on her face.

Charlie swiped her access card and walked through the turnstiles of the Logan Group headquarters in Midtown Manhattan.

The security guards, who usually greeted her with polite nods, suddenly found the floor very interesting. They avoided her eyes.

Charlie ignored them. She stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the 15th floor.

Just as the doors were closing, two women from the finance department squeezed in. They were glued to their phones, whispering furiously.

"Did you hear? The CEO's first love is in the building today," one of them muttered.

"I saw her," the other replied. "She's got a tiny baby bump. Mr. Logan is guarding her like she's made of glass."

Charlie stood in the back corner. She kept her eyes locked on her phone screen, but her grip on the device was so tight her knuckles ached.

The women kept talking.

"What about that plain-Jane wife of his in the marketing department? The one who tricked her way into the family?"

"What about her? I heard the divorce papers are already signed. She's getting kicked to the curb."

The elevator chimed. Floor 15.

Charlie stepped forward, her face a mask of absolute indifference, and walked right past the two women.

They gasped, slapping their hands over their mouths as the doors closed behind her.

Charlie walked onto the marketing floor. The usual hum of ringing phones and chatter died the second her heels clicked against the carpet.

She ignored the pitying and mocking stares burning into her back. She walked straight to the women's restroom at the end of the hall.

She pushed the door open, walked into the furthest stall, locked it, and leaned her head against the cool metal partition. She just needed five minutes of silence.

A moment later, the restroom door swung open. The sharp clack of stilettos echoed off the tiles.

Two women walked in. Charlie instantly recognized the voice of Trina Dempsey, her subordinate who had always been a thorn in her side.

"I can't believe she actually showed her face today," Trina sneered, the sound of a lipstick cap popping off following her words.

"Right?" her friend chimed in. "Now that Ms. Alyce is here, Charlie's title as the CEO's wife is a total joke."

Trina laughed, a high, grating sound. "She's a country bumpkin. If she hadn't gotten lucky and saved the old chairman's life, she wouldn't even be allowed to clean the toilets at Logan Group."

"Well, once she's gone, that Marketing Director spot is yours, Trina."

"Obviously," Trina said smugly. "I've already backed up all her client files to my personal drive. When she gets thrown out, she's leaving with nothing."

Inside the stall, Charlie's eyes snapped open.

The exhaustion vanished, replaced by a cold, lethal clarity.

She reached out and unlocked the stall.

She kicked the door open. It slammed against the dividing wall with a violent bang.

Trina and her friend jumped, shrieking as the lipstick tumbled from Trina's hand and clattered into the sink.

Charlie walked out slowly. Her posture was perfectly straight, her expression terrifyingly calm.

She walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and began washing her hands. She stared at Trina through the massive mirror above the vanity.

The water ran. Nobody breathed.

Charlie pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, dried her hands meticulously, and finally turned around.

A chilling smile curved the corner of her mouth.

"Backing up my client files to your personal drive?" Charlie's voice was low, but it carried the weight of an executioner's blade. "Trina, that is corporate espionage."

All the blood drained from Trina's face. She stumbled backward, her mouth opening and closing like a dying fish.