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?

It was 2:00 AM when Jonna unlocked the door to the penthouse. She was exhausted, her bones aching.

The apartment was dark. She assumed Flint had stayed at the estate to do damage control.

She kicked off her shoes and walked toward the bedroom.

The smell hit her first. Tobacco. Flint didn't smoke in the house.

She pushed the bedroom door open.

Flint was sitting in the armchair by the window, a silhouette against the city lights. The ember of a cigarette glowed orange.

Jonna gasped, her hand flying to her chest.

Flint crushed the cigarette into a crystal ashtray. He stood up. "Where were you?"

"Walking," Jonna said, her voice tight. "Thinking."

He walked toward her. He had taken off his jacket and tie. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top. He looked dangerous.

"Grandmother gave me an ultimatum," Flint said, stopping inches from her. "Fix the image. Produce the heir. Or lose the CEO seat."

"Not my problem," Jonna said, trying to step around him.

He blocked her path. He backed her against the wall.

"It is your problem," he said. "We need a child. A real one. Not Serena's mistake."

He leaned in, his breath smelling of scotch and smoke. "You humiliated me, but you also created an opportunity. Since you were so kind as to debunk the impotency rumors in the most dramatic way possible... let's prove them right."

Jonna's eyes widened. "Get away from me."

"You're my wife," Flint said, his hand moving to her waist. "You owe me this."

"I owe you nothing!" Jonna shouted. "You bought me to pay a debt! That debt is paid!"

"Not until there's a baby," Flint snarled. He pressed his body against hers. He was heavy, solid muscle.

Jonna panicked. If he touched her... if he forced her... it would muddy the timeline. He would think the baby was conceived tonight.

But she couldn't let him touch her. The thought made her skin crawl.

"Flint, stop!"

He didn't stop. His hand moved to the buttons of her dress.

Jonna reacted on instinct. She brought her knee up, driving it hard into his groin.

Flint grunted, a sound of pure shock and pain. He doubled over, stumbling back.

Jonna didn't wait. She scrambled past him and ran into the ensuite bathroom. She slammed the door and twisted the lock.

"Jonna!" Flint roared from the other side, pounding on the wood. "Open this door!"

She backed away, trembling, until her back hit the cold tiles of the shower.