Chapter 4

I reached for the coffee pot and my hand brushed Sterling's.

He went still.

We were in the kitchen. Morning light through the window. He'd been saying something about a meeting downtown. I wasn't really listening. I was watching his hand on the counter, long fingers wrapped around his mug, and thinking about how many times over the past eighteen months I'd been careful not to touch him.

Every time he'd held a door. Every time he'd passed me something across the table. Every careful inch of space I'd maintained.

I set the coffee pot down.

Put my hand on his.

He stopped talking mid-sentence. Didn't pull away. Didn't move at all. Just looked at my hand covering his knuckles like he was afraid if he breathed wrong I'd disappear.

I counted. One. Two. Three.

His skin was warm.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

I could feel his pulse in his wrist.

Twenty.

I pulled my hand back.

Sterling exhaled slowly. Picked up his mug. Took a sip like nothing had happened.

"I should go," he said quietly. "The meeting."

"Okay."

He left his coffee half-finished on the counter.

I stood there for a long time after the door closed. Stared at my hand. It wasn't shaking.

---

That night I moved my pillow.

Not far. Just from my side of the bed to the floor by my door. I sat next to it with my back against the wall and my knees pulled up and tried to decide if I was ready.

Dr. Voss had said it would feel like this. Like standing at the edge of something high. Like the only way forward was to jump and trust you wouldn't break.

I thought about Sterling's face that morning. The way he'd gone so carefully still.

I stood up. Walked down the hall. Stopped outside his door.

Knocked once.

Footsteps. The door opened.

He was in a t-shirt and sweatpants. Hair damp from the shower. He looked at me and his expression did something I couldn't name.

"Everly."

I didn't say anything. Just stood there.

"Do you need—"

"Can I come in?"

He stepped back immediately. Held the door wide.

I walked past him into his room. It was smaller than mine. Neat. The bed was made. A book on the nightstand. The framed photo I'd never gotten close enough to see.

I turned around.

He was still by the door. Hands at his sides. Waiting.

"I don't know how to do this," I said.

His voice was very quiet. "We don't have to do anything."

"I want to."

He nodded slowly. "All right."

"But I need—" I stopped. Started again. "I need to be the one who decides."

"Yes."

"Every part of it."

"Yes."

I took a step toward him. Then another. He didn't move.

I reached up and touched his face. His jaw was rough under my palm. He closed his eyes.

"Tell me if I do something wrong," he said.

"You won't."

I kissed him.

He let me. Didn't pull me closer. Didn't deepen it. Just stood there and let me decide how much and how long and when to stop.

I pulled back. His eyes opened.

"Okay," I whispered.

He waited.

I took his hand. Led him to the bed. Sat down on the edge.

He sat beside me. Not touching. A foot of space between us.

I turned to face him. "I'm afraid I'll panic."

"Then we stop."

"What if I can't finish?"

"Then we stop."

I looked at my hands. "What if I can't do this at all?"

"Everly." He waited until I looked up. "There is no version of this where you disappoint me."

My throat tightened.

I kissed him again. Longer this time. His hand came up to my waist and stopped. Hovered.

"You can touch me," I said against his mouth.

His fingers settled gently on my hip. Barely any pressure.

I lay back. He followed, careful, slow. Every move a question I answered with my body.

When my breath hitched, he stopped.

"Keep going," I said.

When I turned my face away, he waited until I turned back.

When I said his name, he answered.

Afterward, I lay with my head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat slow.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

"Yes."

His hand moved to my hair. Stopped. "Can I—"

"Yes."

His fingers combed through gently. I closed my eyes.

"Sterling?"

"Mm?"

"Thank you."

His hand stilled for a moment. Then continued its slow path through my hair.

"Stay," he said. Not a question. A hope.

I stayed.

---

The clinic smelled like antiseptic and fake lemon.

I sat on the exam table with paper crinkling under me and stared at Dr. Patel's kind, careful face.

"You're about six weeks along," she said. "Everything looks good. Healthy."

I nodded. Couldn't speak.

She printed out a long receipt of information. Vitamins. Appointments. Warning signs. Her voice was warm and steady and I didn't hear most of it.

I took the papers. Walked to my car. Sat in the parking lot.

Six weeks.

I put my hand on my stomach. Nothing showed yet. Nothing felt different.

But it was there.

I started the car. Turned it off. Started it again.

Drove home in silence.

Sterling was in his study. I could hear him on a call. I went to my room and closed the door.

Pulled out my laptop. Opened a dozen tabs. Read about first trimesters and prenatal vitamins and what to expect.

Closed them all.

Opened a new window. Searched baby clothes.

Found a onesie. Pale yellow. Small enough to fit in my palm. Tiny ducks embroidered on the front.

I ordered it. Two-day shipping.

Then I opened a blank document and started typing.

*Sterling,*

I'm pregnant.

Deleted it.

*Sterling,*

I have something to tell you.

Deleted it.

*Sterling,*

Remember that night three weeks ago? Well.

I closed the laptop.

The onesie arrived on a Tuesday. I hid it in my desk drawer under a stack of research notes.

Took it out that night. Held it up to the light. It was so small.

I folded it carefully. Put it back.

Wednesday I drafted another version. Deleted it.

Thursday I practiced in the mirror. "Sterling, I'm pregnant." Too blunt. "Sterling, we're going to have a baby." Too cheerful. "Sterling, I need to tell you something." Too ominous.

Friday I made his favorite dinner. Set the table. Lit candles.

He came home late. Apologetic. Kissed my forehead. "This looks amazing. Give me five minutes to change."

I watched him walk down the hall.

Sat down at the table.

Stared at the candles.

When he came back, I smiled. "How was your day?"

We ate. Talked about nothing. He told me about a deal closing. I told him about a paper I was reading.

The words sat in my throat the whole time.

After dinner, he pulled me onto the couch. I curled against him and felt his hand settle on my hip.

"Everly?"

"Mm?"

"You seem happy lately."

I looked up at him. "I am."

He smiled. Actually smiled. Rare and real.

"Good," he said softly.

I almost told him then.

Almost.

Instead I kissed him and let him carry me to bed.

Monday, I promised myself. Monday I'll tell him.

I fell asleep with his arm around me and my hand on my stomach and something that felt dangerously close to hope.

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Chapter 5

I came home early on a Tuesday.

No reason. My research meeting had wrapped up faster than expected. I took the subway instead of waiting for Sterling's driver. Walked the last three blocks with my hand pressed to my stomach, thinking about yellow onesies and tiny ducks.

The apartment was quiet when I let myself in.

Sterling's voice drifted from his study. Low. Businesslike. The door was cracked open maybe two inches.

I stopped in the hallway. Started to move past. He had calls all day. I knew better than to interrupt.

Then I heard Knox's name.

My hand froze on my bag strap.

"The timeline is correct," Sterling was saying. "Six weeks confirmed. We proceed as discussed."

A pause. Someone responding on the other end.

"Cord blood extraction is scheduled for week thirty-six. The facility is prepared."

My lungs stopped working.

"Yes," Sterling continued. His voice was flat. Clinical. The same tone he used to discuss quarterly reports. "The delivery will be managed privately. No complications anticipated."

Another pause. Longer.

Then Knox's voice, tinny through the phone speaker. I could just barely make it out. "You tired of the performance yet?"

Silence.

Ninety seconds of it. I counted.

When Sterling spoke again, his voice was quieter. "It's nearly done."

I didn't move. Couldn't. My hand was still on my bag. My keys were still in my other hand. I was standing in my own hallway in my own apartment and nothing made sense.

The delivery.

Cord blood extraction.

The performance.

I walked to the bedroom. Sat down on the edge of the bed. Set my bag beside me very carefully.

Stared at the wall.

Two years.

The smaller bedroom he'd taken without asking why. The therapy sessions he'd attended. Every careful inch of space he'd maintained until I was ready. His hand hovering over my waist that first time, waiting for permission.

*There is no version of this where you disappoint me.*

I put my hand over my mouth.

The drafting table by the window. My research files unpacked and organized. The gala where he'd stood between me and Alina like a wall.

*You don't owe anyone a performance.*

Oh god.

The morning I'd touched his hand by the coffee pot. The way he'd gone so still. Like he was afraid I'd disappear.

Because I was supposed to. Eventually. After the delivery.

I stood up. Walked to the bathroom. Turned on the shower. Sat down on the floor with the water running and pressed my forehead to my knees.

Breathed.

One.

Two.

Three.

By the time Sterling knocked on the bedroom door twenty minutes later, I was dressed. Hair damp. Sitting at my desk with my laptop open.

"Everly?" He pushed the door open. "I didn't hear you come in."

I looked up. Smiled. "Research meeting ended early."

He crossed the room. Kissed the top of my head. His hand settled on my shoulder. "How did it go?"

"Good. Productive."

His thumb brushed my collarbone. Gentle. Familiar.

I didn't flinch.

"I'm glad," he said quietly.

I turned back to my screen. Watched his reflection in the dark glass. He stood there for another moment, then left.

I waited until I heard his study door close.

Then I opened a new browser window and searched: *Milo Thompson contact.*

---

Four days.

I gave myself four days to be sure.

Wednesday morning, Sterling made coffee. I sat at the table and watched his hands move. Efficient. Precise. He set my cup down in front of me. Black. No sugar.

"Sleep well?" he asked.

"Yes."

He kissed my temple before he left for his meeting.

I counted to sixty after the door closed. Then I went to his study.

The Tribeca files were in the third drawer. Land acquisition contracts. Zoning permits. Architectural plans for a development that would reshape six blocks of lower Manhattan.

I photographed every page with my phone.

Put them back exactly as I'd found them.

Thursday, I mapped the apartment's security. Cameras in the hallway. The lobby. The elevator. The driver who took me to therapy reported my movements. I'd known that for months. I'd thought it was protection.

Now I understood.

It was monitoring.

Friday night, Sterling pulled me onto the couch after dinner. His hand settled on my hip. I let him. Turned my face up when he kissed me.

"I love you," he said against my mouth.

I'd heard him say it a dozen times. A hundred. It had always sounded real.

Now I heard the space around the words. The calculation.

"I love you too," I said.

He carried me to bed.

I counted the ceiling tiles in the dark after he fell asleep. His arm was heavy across my waist. His breathing slow and even.

I turned my head and looked at him.

In sleep, his face was unguarded. Peaceful. He looked like the man who'd sat on my bedroom floor at three in the morning and told me about his mother's funeral. The man who'd set up my drafting table without asking for thanks.

The man who'd orchestrated my rape.

I closed my eyes.

Saturday morning, I found the gap.

Tuesday mornings. Ten to noon. Security shift rotation. The exterior cameras rebooted for system updates. A two-hour window.

I opened my laptop. Typed carefully.

*Mr. Thompson,*

*I have information you want. Tribeca holdings. Zoning maps. Acquisition timeline.*

*I need extraction. Clean identity. No questions.*

*Tuesday. Two weeks.*

I stared at the screen.

Deleted it.

Wrote it again.