Flint's grip on her wrist was like a vice. He didn't speak as he dragged her out of the dining room, down the hall, and into the library. He shoved her inside and slammed the heavy mahogany door, locking it with a sharp twist.

He threw her onto the leather sofa. His chest was heaving.

"Have you lost your mind?" he roared. "That was the Chairwoman of the Board!"

Jonna rubbed her red wrist, looking up at him calmly. "That was your grandmother. Not my boss."

Flint paced the room, running a hand through his hair. "What is that photo? You're spying on me?"

"Your mistress sent it to me," Jonna said. She stood up and reached into her purse. "She's more honest than you are."

Flint stopped. He looked at the phone in his hand. He saw the text message history she hadn't deleted yet.

"That stupid woman," he muttered.

It was the final nail. He wasn't sorry he cheated. He was sorry she was stupid enough to text his wife.

Jonna pulled out a folded document. It was the draft of the divorce agreement she had been carrying for weeks.

She slapped it onto the desk. "Prenup Article 14. 'Gross Infidelity' resulting in public scandal allows for immediate termination with compensation. Sign it."

Flint looked at the paper, then at her. A slow, cold sneer spread across his face.

He walked around the desk and sat in his grandfather's high-backed chair. The panic was gone, replaced by the shark-like demeanor he wore in boardrooms.

"You think you can leave?" he asked softly. "The IPO is next month. If we divorce now, the stock tanks. I won't allow it."

"I have proof," Jonna said. "If you don't sign, I send that photo to TMZ."

Flint leaned back, steepling his fingers. He studied her for a long moment.

"Serena's lying," he said.

Jonna blinked. "What?"

"The baby isn't mine," Flint said, his voice devoid of emotion. "It can't be."

"Don't lie to me, Flint. I saw the texts."

"I had a vasectomy," Flint said. "Three years ago. Before we got married."

The room spun. Jonna gripped the edge of the desk. She watched his eyes, searching for the tell she'd been trained to spot in liars. There was a flicker, almost imperceptible, a microsecond of tension in his jaw. He was bluffing.

"A... vasectomy?"

"I didn't want distractions," Flint said with a shrug. "I froze samples, of course. But naturally? Impossible."

Jonna's mind raced. If he had a vasectomy... then Serena was lying. Or it wasn't his.

But then... her baby.

The baby growing inside her right now.

If Flint believed he was sterile, and he found out Jonna was pregnant...

He would think she cheated.

He would think it was an affair baby. He would destroy her. He would use the adultery clause in the prenup to strip her of everything, leave her penniless, and drag her name through the mud.

Flint stood up and walked toward her. "So, there is no bastard child. Your leverage is gone."

Jonna's heart hammered against her ribs. This was a trap. A logical dead end.

"Trust is broken regardless," she managed to say, her voice trembling. "I want to leave."

"You're not going anywhere," Flint said, looming over her. "You are my wife until I say otherwise."

The lock on the library door clicked. The handle turned, and the door flew open.

Eleanor stood there, her face flushed, holding her phone up like a weapon.

"Is it true?" she shrieked.

Flint turned, annoyed. "Mother, get out."

Eleanor marched into the room, ignoring him. She thrust the phone into his face. "Victoria is telling everyone the pregnancy photo was a fake! A lie you concocted to cover up the real problem! She just posted in the family group chat! She says you have... dysfunction? That you're impotent?"

Flint froze. His jaw dropped. He looked at the screen, then slowly turned his head to look at Jonna.

Jonna bit the inside of her cheek. The lie from this morning. The boomerang.

"Who said that?" Flint growled, his voice dropping an octave.

"Your wife!" Eleanor pointed a manicured finger at Jonna. "She told Victoria you have 'performance anxiety' and that's why there's no baby!"

Flint stared at Jonna with disbelief. "You told them I have ED?"

Jonna shrugged, backing toward the door. "It sounded better than 'he has a mistress and a bastard child,' didn't it?"

Eleanor looked between them, confused. "Wait. Is there a baby or not? Is he impotent or is he cheating? Which is it?"

Flint was trapped. He couldn't admit to the vasectomy (which he'd just lied about). He couldn't admit to the ED (it would kill his ego). He couldn't admit to the mistress (it would kill his marriage).

He stood there, mouth opening and closing, paralyzed by the intersection of three different lies.

Jonna saw her chance.

"I'll let you two sort out the family tree," she said.

She slipped past Eleanor and bolted into the hallway. She didn't go back to the ballroom. She kicked off her heels, grabbed them, and ran toward the side exit.

She burst out into the cool night air. She didn't call the driver. She fumbled with her phone and summoned an Uber.

3 minutes away.

She stood in the shadows of the hedges, shivering. The mansion glowed behind her, a beautiful, golden cage.

A beat-up Toyota Camry pulled up to the gates. Jonna sprinted to it, diving into the backseat.

"Go," she told the driver. "Just drive."

As the car pulled away, she looked back. Flint had come out onto the portico. He stood at the top of the stairs, looking into the darkness. He didn't chase her. He couldn't leave the mess inside.

Jonna leaned back against the worn fabric seat. Her phone buzzed.

Flint: We are not done. Come home.

She turned the phone off.

She touched her stomach.

Her husband thought he was sterile. Her mother-in-law thought he was impotent. And she was pregnant with the heir to a billion-dollar empire.

It was a comedy of errors, but nobody was laughing.

The Uber dropped her off at a corner in Manhattan, blocks away from their penthouse. Jonna pulled her hood up and walked into a 24-hour CVS.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bleaching everything white. The store was empty except for a security guard asleep on a stool.

Jonna walked to the family planning aisle. She grabbed three different boxes. Clearblue. First Response. The generic store brand.

She paid with cash she had stashed in her clutch. The cashier, a girl with purple hair, popped her gum and looked at Jonna's disheveled expensive dress. She didn't say a word, just slid the bag across the counter.

Jonna didn't go home. Flint might be there, or he might have sent security.

She walked to a small park nearby. The public restroom was open, a concrete bunker that smelled of bleach and stale urine. It was disgusting. It was perfect.

She locked herself in the stall. Her hands shook so badly she dropped the first box.

She waited. Three minutes.

She lined them up on the toilet paper dispenser.

Positive.

Two lines.

Pregnant 3+ Weeks.

Jonna slid down the graffiti-covered wall until she hit the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest.

It was real. The vasectomy was a lie, just as she suspected, or it failed. It didn't matter.

She pulled out her phone and turned it on just long enough to access her files. She opened the Prenup PDF. She searched for "Custody."

Article 8, Section C: In the event of dissolution of marriage, sole physical and legal custody of any issue produced during the union shall revert to the Harrington Family Trust to ensure proper succession training. This clause is absolute, non-negotiable, and supersedes any and all other articles pertaining to marital misconduct or fault.

It was a draconian clause. Her lawyer had warned her, his voice grave over the phone. "Jonna, this isn't a custody clause, it's an ownership contract. You sign this, and your child becomes an asset of the corporation." But back then, she thought she was saving her father. She thought she could handle it.

She was wrong.

If she divorced him now, they would take the baby. She would be a surrogate, discarded after delivery.

If she stayed, she was trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who lied about his fertility and had mistresses.

She looked at the tests. She wrapped them in layers of toilet paper and buried them deep in the trash can.

She walked out of the bathroom. The cold air hit her face.

She had to hide this. She had to hide the baby until she could find a loophole. Or until she could run far enough that the Harringtons couldn't find her.

But where do you run when your husband owns satellites?