The hot steam billowed out into the hallway as Julian pushed the bathroom door open. He was rubbing a towel through his damp hair, a white bath towel slung low around his waist. He walked barefoot toward the open-concept kitchen.

Eleonora stood at the marble island. She picked up the plates of cold, untouched filet mignon and scraped them directly into the trash can.

The ceramic plate clattered harshly against the rim of the bin.

Julian stepped up behind her. His bare chest pressed flush against her back. He wrapped his strong arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against him.

Eleonora's entire body went rigid. Her lungs seized. The silver fork slipped from her trembling fingers and clattered loudly onto the marble countertop.

The heat radiating from his damp skin seeped through the thin silk of her robe. And then, she smelled it again.

The hot water of the shower had washed away his cologne, but the faint, sickeningly sweet scent of tuberose still clung to his skin.

Julian let out a low chuckle. He bit down softly on her earlobe.

"Throwing away our anniversary dinner?" he murmured. The vibration of his voice against her neck made her skin crawl.

Eleonora locked her knees to keep from shoving him away.

"It was ice cold," she said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

Julian let go of her waist. He stepped back and walked around the island. He pulled a dark apron from a hook and tied it around his waist.

He opened the pantry and pulled out a box of linguine and a jar of imported tomato sauce.

"I'll make it up to you," he said, his tone dripping with practiced affection. "I'll cook."

Eleonora leaned against the counter. Her eyes tracked his movements. He chopped an onion with precise, practiced efficiency.

A cold, desolate wind blew through her chest. Julian Sinclair, the ruthless CEO of Sinclair Group, only knew how to cook one dish. Pasta pomodoro.

She knew, with absolute, sickening certainty, that he had not learned to cook this dish for her.

The water in the copper pot began to boil, sending thick white steam into the air. Julian turned his head and flashed her a devastatingly handsome, indulgent smile.

Eleonora shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her silk robe. Her fingers brushed against the folded piece of paper—the pregnancy test report she had hidden there twenty minutes ago. She gripped it tightly, the sharp edges cutting into her fingertips. The pain kept her grounded. She would not tell him. She would protect this secret with her life.

Julian plated the pasta. He slid a steaming bowl across the marble island toward her and handed her a fork.

The heavy, acidic smell of cooked tomatoes and garlic hit her face.

Eleonora's stomach violently contracted. A massive wave of nausea surged up her throat.

She slapped her hand over her mouth. She shoved herself away from the island. The heavy barstool screeched horribly against the floorboards.

She sprinted across the living room and threw open the door to the first-floor powder room.

She dropped to her knees in front of the toilet and dry-heaved. Her chest burned as her stomach cramped painfully.

Footsteps pounded against the floor outside. Julian slammed his fist against the bathroom door.

"Nora!" he shouted. "Are you sick? Did you eat something bad?"

His voice sounded frantic. The panic in his tone sounded so real it made her want to scream.

Eleonora flushed the toilet. She stood up on shaking legs and turned on the cold water in the sink. She splashed the freezing water onto her pale face.

She looked at her reflection. Her eyes were bloodshot. She took a deep breath, forcing her facial muscles to relax.

She unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Julian stood there, his chest heaving. He reached out to press the back of his hand against her forehead.

Eleonora jerked her head back, dodging his touch.

"I'm fine," she said quickly. "It's just my stomach. I've been pulling all-nighters for the Sinclair Group's new design pitch. My digestion is a mess."

Julian's hand hung in the empty air. His jaw tightened in a brief flash of annoyance, but he quickly masked it with a look of deep concern.

Without a word, he stepped forward, bent down, and scooped her up into his arms.

Eleonora gasped, her hands automatically flying to his bare shoulders to steady herself.

He carried her up the sweeping staircase to the second-floor master bedroom. He laid her down gently on the center of the massive king-size bed.

He pulled the heavy silk duvet up over her legs.

Eleonora immediately closed her eyes. She turned her head away, feigning absolute exhaustion. She wanted to build a wall between them.

The mattress dipped heavily beside her.

Julian slid under the covers. His large, scorching hot body pressed against her side. His hand slid under the hem of her silk robe, his rough palm gliding up her bare thigh.

His touch was possessive, demanding.

Eleonora's eyes snapped open. She grabbed his wrist, her fingernails digging into his skin.

She stared into his dark eyes, her breathing shallow and fast.

"Julian, please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I feel sick."

Julian's hand stopped moving. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast harsh shadows across his face. He stared down at her pale, rigid features.

The air in the bedroom grew thick and heavy with dangerous sexual tension. He was a man who rarely heard the word no.

Eleonora's heart pounded against her ribs. She braced herself, terrified he would force the issue.

Suddenly, Julian let out a heavy sigh.

He pulled his hand out from under her robe. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tightly against his chest.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck. "Go to sleep, Nora," he murmured.

His heart beat steadily against her back. Thump. Thump. Thump.

To Eleonora, the sound was repulsive. She lay completely frozen in his arms. She didn't dare move a muscle, terrified he would feel the slight, protective tension in her lower abdomen.

Hours passed. The room grew pitch black.

Julian's breathing eventually deepened into a slow, rhythmic snore.

Eleonora waited another twenty minutes to be absolutely sure. Then, moving inch by agonizing inch, she slid out of his embrace.

She stepped barefoot onto the plush wool rug. She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out at the glittering skyline of Manhattan.

The neon lights reflected in her cold, dead eyes.

She pulled her phone from her robe pocket. She turned the brightness all the way down.

She opened her messages and tapped on Sloane's name.

I need a favor. Can you access the Sotheby's buyer registry from tonight? I need a name.

A few seconds later, Sloane replied: "Give me ten minutes." Eleonora waited, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Exactly eleven minutes later, a new message lit up the screen. Sloane had sent a screenshot of the internal bidding log and a grainy photo pulled from event security footage.

"The buyer is Julian Sinclair. But the guest—the woman in white—I ran facial recognition through our industry database. Her name is Seraphina Sinclair. Julian's stepsister. Just got back from a Swiss psychiatric facility last week. Be careful, Nora."

Eleonora stared at the name. Seraphina. A ghost from Julian's past that he never spoke about. Her blood ran cold. She typed back: "Thank you." Then locked the screen.

She let out a bitter, silent laugh. She didn't reply further. She locked the screen.

She walked silently into the massive walk-in closet. She opened the bottom drawer of her vanity and pulled out an old, leather-bound diary with a small metal lock.

She took the crumpled pregnancy test report from her pocket. She smoothed out the creases and placed it flat between the pages.

She snapped the small padlock shut. The metallic click sounded loud in the quiet closet.

With that sound, she locked away the last shred of hope she had for this marriage. She rested her hand flat against her stomach.

I'm sorry, she whispered in her mind.

She walked back into the bedroom. She stood by the bed, looking down at Julian's sleeping face.

The man she had loved fiercely for three years now looked like a terrifying stranger. A violent shiver racked her body.

She carefully lifted the edge of the duvet and slid back into bed. She stayed as close to the edge of the mattress as possible, keeping a safe physical distance from him.

She closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to slow.

Suddenly, Julian's arm shot out across the bed.

He grabbed her waist and yanked her backward. He pinned her tightly against his chest, his grip like a steel vice.

Eleonora's eyes flew open in the dark. She gritted her teeth, her body stiff with resistance.

"Don't leave..." Julian mumbled into her hair, his voice thick with sleep.

Eleonora squeezed her eyes shut. She lay trapped in the dark, her heart cold as ice, waiting for the sun to rise.

The darkness of the night finally broke. Bright, piercing autumn sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, stabbing into Eleonora's swollen eyes.

She woke up alone in the center of the king-size bed. The sheets on Julian's side were cold to the touch.

She sat up, her body aching from a night of rigid tension. She pulled a cashmere shawl tightly around her shoulders and walked slowly out of the bedroom.

As she descended the sweeping spiral staircase, the murmur of voices drifted up from the first floor.

Eleonora's bare feet stopped dead on the marble steps.

Down in the living room, Mrs. Gable was setting a tray of Wedgwood bone china teacups on the coffee table. The housekeeper looked up, her expression strained and deeply apologetic. "Ma'am, I am so sorry. I told her to wait in the lobby, but Mr. Sinclair had given her the private elevator bypass code," Mrs. Gable murmured nervously.

Sitting on the plush velvet sofa was a woman wearing a beige trench coat.

The woman had her back to the stairs. Her shoulders were narrow, her posture delicate.

Eleonora's breath caught. Even in a different coat, the familiar tilt of the head, the delicate curve of the shoulders—it was the same posture from the video. Her mind flashed to the name Sloane had sent her last night: Seraphina Sinclair.

It was her.

Eleonora's pupils contracted violently. Her fingernails dug so hard into the wooden banister that her knuckles turned white.

The woman in the white dress. The two-million-dollar necklace. The tuberose perfume. It all slammed together in her brain with the force of a physical explosion.

The woman turned her head.

It was Seraphina Sinclair. Julian's stepsister, who had supposedly just returned from a psychiatric facility in Switzerland.

Seraphina stood up. A flawless, sickeningly sweet smile spread across her perfectly made-up face.

"Good morning, Eleonora," Seraphina chirped. Her voice was soft, coated in a layer of sugary poison.

Eleonora took a deep, jagged breath. She forced the raging fire in her chest down into her stomach.

She walked down the remaining steps, her slippers slapping quietly against the floor. She gave Seraphina a curt, dismissive nod and sat down in the single armchair opposite the sofa.

Seraphina didn't seem to mind the cold reception. She reached into her Hermès Birkin bag and pulled out a dark blue velvet jewelry box.

She pushed the box across the glass coffee table.

With a sharp snap, the box sprang open.

The massive blue sapphire necklace lay nestled against the white satin. The morning sun hit the jewels, sending blinding, fractured light dancing across the walls.

Eleonora's breath hitched. The visual confirmation felt like a physical blow to the ribs.

"I just came to return this," Seraphina said softly. "Julian bought it last night, but I just wanted to try it on for the evening to keep up appearances. I brought it back for you."

Seraphina's eyes gleamed with a hidden, vicious triumph.

Bile rose in Eleonora's throat. She stared at the necklace as if it were a coiled viper ready to strike.

"If Julian bought it for me," Eleonora said, her voice dripping with ice, "why would his stepsister need to try it on for him?"

Seraphina's eyes instantly filled with tears. She bit her lower lip, looking like a terrified, cornered animal. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could formulate a lie, the heavy oak doors of Julian's study swung open.

Julian strode out into the living room. He was wearing a dark grey dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

His eyes bypassed Eleonora completely and locked onto Seraphina. A deep crease formed between his brows.

He crossed the room in three long strides and stopped right in front of Seraphina.

"What are you doing here?" Julian demanded, his voice thick with panic and anger. "You haven't recovered yet. Why aren't you resting at the hotel?"

Seraphina reached out and grabbed the cuff of Julian's shirt. She tilted her head up, a single tear slipping down her cheek.

"I was just afraid Eleonora would misunderstand about the necklace," Seraphina whimpered. "I wanted to bring it to her myself."

Julian immediately grabbed Seraphina's wrist. He turned her arm over, checking her pulse, inspecting her skin. The movement was so natural, so deeply ingrained, it looked like muscle memory.

He completely ignored his pregnant wife sitting less than three feet away.

The sight of his large hand wrapped around Seraphina's delicate wrist felt like a knife twisting in Eleonora's gut. The last, pathetic shred of hope she had held onto shattered into dust.

Eleonora let out a short, harsh laugh.

The sound cut through the room like a gunshot.

Julian flinched. He dropped Seraphina's wrist as if he had been burned. He turned to look at Eleonora, a flash of raw panic crossing his face. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight awkwardly.

Eleonora leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. She stared at them, her eyes burning with contempt.

"So," Eleonora said, her voice dangerously quiet. "You told me you were bidding on this necklace for Jax Mercer. How exactly did it end up around your sister's neck?"

Julian's jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck stood out tight and rigid. His lie had been dragged out into the light, and he had nowhere to hide.

He opened his mouth, but Seraphina beat him to it.

Seraphina gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh my god," she whispered, looking at Julian with wide, innocent eyes. "Julian, you didn't tell her? You lied to her about me?"

The words were a calculated, lethal strike. She had just nailed Julian to the cross of his own deception.

"Shut up, Seraphina!" Julian roared. The volume of his voice shook the windows.

He turned to the hallway. "Mrs. Gable! Get the driver. Take Seraphina back to her hotel immediately."

Seraphina knew she had won. She stood up obediently. She gave Julian a tearful nod, then shot Eleonora a look of pure, unadulterated malice before turning and walking out the front door.

The heavy door clicked shut. The living room fell into a suffocating, dead silence.

Julian ripped his tie loose from his collar. He walked toward Eleonora, reaching his hand out to touch her shoulder.

Eleonora shot up from the chair. She took a massive step backward, putting the coffee table between them.

"Don't touch me," she hissed. "Explain. Now."

Julian took a deep, ragged breath. He ran a hand through his hair.

"You know what my family owes her mother," Julian said, his voice dropping into a low, pleading register. "Her mother was crippled in that car accident saving my life. Seraphina just went through a brutal divorce. She's mentally fragile. I have a responsibility to take care of her."

Eleonora stared at the velvet box on the table. The absurdity of his words made her physically dizzy.

"You need to take care of her?" Eleonora repeated, her voice rising. "So you buy her a two-million-dollar necklace and lie to your wife's face?"

Julian's face hardened. His guilt quickly morphed into defensive anger.

"You're being overly sensitive, Nora," he snapped. "You are the wife of the Sinclair family heir. You need to show some grace. She is just my sister."

The sheer audacity of his words ignited a blinding rage in Eleonora's brain.

She lunged forward. She grabbed the heavy velvet jewelry box off the table and hurled it directly at Julian's chest.

The box slammed into his sternum with a heavy thud. The necklace flew out, hitting the floor and skidding across the hardwood.

"Pay your own debts, Julian," Eleonora spat, her chest heaving. "Don't use my marriage as a stepping stone to ease your guilt."

She turned on her heel and marched toward the stairs. She didn't look back at the pale, furious man standing amidst the scattered jewels.

Eleonora's foot had barely touched the first step of the staircase when Julian's hand clamped down on her wrist.

His grip was brutal. The bones in her wrist ground together, sending a sharp spike of pain up her arm. She gasped, her face twisting in agony.

Before she could pull away, Julian yanked her backward. He dragged her down the hallway, his strides long and furious. He shoved her through the doorway of his study and slammed the heavy oak door shut behind them.

The loud bang rattled the picture frames on the walls.

Eleonora stumbled from the force of his shove and fell back onto the leather Chesterfield sofa. She scrambled to her feet instantly, rubbing her throbbing wrist. She glared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her eyes blazing like a cornered lioness.

Julian paced furiously behind his massive mahogany desk. He reached for his humidor, grabbed a cigar, and then violently threw it back down.

He braced his hands on the edge of the desk, taking a deep breath to force his anger down. He needed to regain control.

"I shouldn't have lied," Julian said, his voice tight but controlled. "But I hid it because I knew you would react exactly like this. I was trying to avoid your irrational jealousy."

Eleonora let out a harsh, incredulous laugh.

She reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled out her phone. She pulled up the screenshot Sloane had sent her-the internal Sotheby's bidding log.

She marched up to the desk and slammed the phone down on the polished wood.

"Irrational?" she demanded. "Look at it. The winning bidder is Julian Sinclair. Jax Mercer's name isn't anywhere on that list. How long were you going to keep treating me like an idiot?"

Julian stared down at the glowing screen. His pupils contracted. The physical proof of his lie was staring him in the face.

His jaw locked. The color drained from his face as he realized he had lost the upper hand.

He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto hers. He played his final, most manipulative card.

"Her mother saved my life, Nora," Julian said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "My legs were pinned in that wreckage. She threw herself over me. She will never walk again because of me. That guilt is a chain around my neck."

He stepped around the desk, closing the distance between them.

"Seraphina is broken," he continued, his tone heavy with moral superiority. "Her husband beat her. She is suicidal. That necklace was a toy. A distraction to keep her from slitting her wrists. It means nothing."

Eleonora listened to his words. The emotional manipulation was so thick she could barely breathe.

"Does your guilt require our marriage to pay the price?" she asked, her voice trembling with cold fury.

Julian grabbed her by the shoulders. His fingers dug into her flesh.

"I will never betray our marriage," Julian swore, his eyes wild with a desperate, manic sincerity. "She is my sister. Nothing more. But you are my wife. You have to be the bigger person. You have to accept her."

Eleonora stared into his eyes. She saw the absolute conviction in his face. He truly believed his own twisted logic. He believed his responsibility to Seraphina superseded his vows to his wife.

Arguing with him was useless.

Eleonora lowered her eyelashes, hiding the cold, calculating realization in her eyes. She forced her rigid shoulders to slump. She let out a long, defeated breath.

"I understand," she whispered softly. "I won't ask about the necklace again."

Julian froze. The sudden submission threw him off balance.

Then, a wave of immense relief washed over his face. The tension drained from his body. He pulled her into a tight, crushing hug.

He buried his face in her hair, pressing a kiss to her crown. "Thank you. You're so good to me," he murmured.

Eleonora stood stiffly in his embrace. Her hands remained curled into tight fists at her sides. She stared blankly at the grey sky outside the window. Her mind was already working, calculating her escape.

Suddenly, the sharp, piercing ring of Julian's private cell phone shattered the quiet room.

Julian pulled back. He pulled the phone from his pocket. He glanced at the screen, and his face immediately tightened.

He quickly pressed the mute button. He looked at Eleonora with an apologetic smile.

"It's an emergency board meeting call from the London office," he lied smoothly.

Eleonora's hands hovered in the air. She saw the microscopic twitch in his jaw. She knew it was a lie.

She slowly lowered her hands behind her back.

"Go ahead," she said, her voice turning to ice.

Julian let out a breath. He quickly turned and walked out onto the study's private balcony, sliding the heavy glass door shut behind him.

Eleonora walked silently toward the glass door. In his frantic rush, Julian hadn't pulled the heavy door completely shut, leaving a half-inch sliver of open air. "...Seraphina... don't cry... I'm coming right now," Julian's low, desperate voice drifted clearly through the narrow crack.

The last fragile thread holding Eleonora's heart together snapped.

She let out a silent, bitter laugh. She hated herself for almost believing him five minutes ago.

Julian hung up the phone. He slid the door open and stepped back inside.

He looked at her, his face a mask of fake regret. "Nora, I'm sorry. The London team needs me to sign off on a merger immediately. I have to go to the office."

Eleonora felt completely hollowed out. She didn't have the energy to scream anymore.

She nodded slowly. "Don't forget your coat," she said, her voice dead.

Julian paused. He looked at her strangely for a second, sensing the unnatural calm. But the urgency of Seraphina's tears pushed his doubts aside.

He grabbed his suit jacket off the chair and practically sprinted out of the study.

The door clicked shut.

Eleonora's knees gave out. She collapsed onto the leather sofa. She clamped her hands over her mouth, a single, agonizing sob tearing through her throat.

She pressed her trembling hand against her flat stomach. The tiny flutter of life inside her was the only thing keeping her sane.

She wiped her face. Her eyes hardened into dark, cold stones. She needed to protect her child.

She stood up and walked over to Julian's desk. His MacBook was sitting there, the screen dark and locked. A man as ruthless and calculating as Julian never left his devices unprotected. But Eleonora knew him intimately. She knew his one hidden vulnerability. She pulled open the bottom right drawer, reaching for the vintage leather-bound copy of 'The Great Gatsby' he kept there. Flipping to page forty-two, she found the faint pencil indentations of his emergency alphanumeric sequence. She typed the complex code into the prompt, and the screen instantly unlocked.

She quickly opened his email client. She clicked on the "Deleted Items" folder.

Her eyes scanned the list. She stopped on an email sent from the Sinclair Group HR department.

Subject: Executive Onboarding Confirmation - Seraphina Sinclair.

Eleonora clicked the email. Her eyes scanned the text, and her blood ran cold.

Seraphina was officially hired. Her title was Design Director.

She was going to be Eleonora's direct boss.

Eleonora slammed the laptop shut. Her whole body shook with a violent, consuming rage. The war had just moved from her home to her office.