Chapter 1 - THE DIVORCE THAT NEVER HAPPENED
The morning my marriage was supposed to end, I threw up into a silver trash can while my husband watched from ten feet away.
Our divorce papers were spread across a polished walnut conference table between us.
Unsigned.
My attorney had just handed me a pen when the nausea hit.
One second, I was staring at the line marked ALINA CROSS.
The next, I was halfway across the room with one hand gripping the edge of a trash can and the other pressed against my stomach.
Nobody spoke.
When I finally straightened, wiping my mouth with a tissue, Dorian Cross was staring at me.
Not with disgust.
Not annoyance.
Fear.
“Hospital.”
He said it so quietly everyone in the law office froze.
“I’m fine.”
His dark eyes narrowed.
“Alina.”
“It was carsickness.”
His attorney suddenly became fascinated by the documents in front of him.
Dorian glanced toward the enormous windows overlooking downtown Chicago.
“The ride here was eleven minutes.”
“Traffic.”
“There was no traffic.”
I hated that he knew when I lied.
I hated that after six months of treating me like a stranger, he could still recognize every small change in my voice.
I buttoned my cream coat.
“We’re getting divorced.”
“No.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
Dorian turned toward Caleb and Noah, the security men waiting near the elevator.
“Bring the SUV around.”
Then he looked back at me.
“The divorce is suspended.”
My attorney blinked.
“Mr. Cross—”
Dorian never looked away from me.
“Hospital. Now.”
Anger rushed through me, hot enough to overwhelm the nausea.
“You can’t suspend a divorce because I got sick.”
“I can refuse to sign.”
“You were the one who filed.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You don’t get to change your mind because I threw up.”
Something tightened in his face.
“You’re pale.”
“I didn’t sleep.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m furious.”
“You nearly fainted.”
“I’m divorcing a man who stopped speaking to me six months ago. Excuse me if I’m not glowing.”
That landed.
For half a second, something almost painful moved through his expression.
Then the wall returned.
“You’re going to the hospital.”
“And if I refuse?”
He stepped closer.
Six months ago, that distance would have disappeared naturally. His hands would have found my waist. His forehead would have rested against mine.
Now his hands remained at his sides.
“I’ll carry you.”
I believed him.
That was always the problem with Dorian.
He never threatened what he wasn’t prepared to do.
Twenty minutes later, I sat in the rear cabin of his black SUV with my arms folded tightly.
Dorian sat across from me.
Not beside me.
Three feet of black leather separated us, along with six months of unanswered questions.
Outside, Chicago moved beneath a gray late-winter sky.
My stomach rolled again.
I closed my eyes.
Dorian noticed.
“How long?”
I opened them.
“What?”
“How long have you been sick?”
“I’m not sick.”
“Alina.”
“Stop saying my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you still care.”
His jaw flexed.
The silence told me more than an argument would have.
Finally, I looked away.
“Two weeks.”
He went very still.
“Two weeks?”
“Maybe.”
“In the mornings?”
I said nothing.
His gaze dropped.
Not obviously.
But I knew him.
His eyes moved toward my stomach.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The possibility had haunted me for twelve days.
I had counted dates on my phone at two in the morning.
Deleted the calendar.
Counted again.
I told myself stress could make a woman late.
Stress could cause nausea.
Stress could explain why coffee suddenly smelled disgusting and why the red wine I once loved made my stomach turn.
There were many explanations.
I had clung desperately to every one except the obvious one.
Dorian leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees.
“When was your last period?”
My head snapped toward him.
“You don’t get to ask me that.”
His voice changed.
Not the voice he used with employees.
Not the voice that made grown men reconsider their decisions.
The voice he used with me years ago.
“Please.”
That single word hurt worse than a command.
“I don’t know.”
A lie.
He knew it.
But he stopped asking.
North Shore Memorial was a private hospital overlooking Lake Michigan.
Dorian spoke to one administrator in the lobby.
Within minutes, we were taken upstairs.
Of course.
Dorian Cross never waited for anything.
Money opened doors.
Fear opened the rest.
Dr. Elaine Mercer entered the examination room shortly afterward. She was in her early fifties, calm and direct, with silver beginning at her temples.
“Mrs. Cross?”
“Alina is fine.”
She smiled gently.
“I understand you experienced nausea and dizziness.”
“It’s probably stress.”
Beside the window, Dorian stood perfectly motionless.
Dr. Mercer glanced at him.
“Would you prefer privacy?”
“Yes,” I said.
“No,” Dorian said simultaneously.
I stared at him.
The doctor raised an eyebrow.
Dorian exhaled.
“I’ll wait outside.”
That surprised me enough that I said nothing as he left.
Dr. Mercer closed the door.
Then she sat beside me.
“Your husband appears worried.”
“My husband served me divorce papers three weeks ago.”
Her expression shifted.
“I see.”
“No, you really don’t.”
She didn’t argue.
Instead, she ordered blood work.
Twenty-five minutes later, she returned carrying a tablet.
One look at her face told me.
My fingers went cold.
“Alina,” she said gently, “your pregnancy test is positive.”
The room disappeared.
For a few seconds, all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears.
Pregnant.
I pressed both hands against the examination bed.
“How far?”
“Based on the hormone levels, possibly eight to nine weeks. We’ll need an ultrasound.”
Eight weeks.
I closed my eyes.
The last night Dorian and I had slept together had been nine weeks ago.
Two days before he moved into his office.
Two days before the first divorce attorney called me.
A painful laugh escaped me.
Of course.
Of course life would do this now.
“Does he know?”
Dr. Mercer asked quietly.
“No.”
A knock sounded.
Dorian’s voice came through the door.
“Alina?”
He sounded different.
Almost frightened.
I looked at Dr. Mercer.
“I need one minute.”
She nodded and stepped toward the hallway.
The door opened halfway.
Dorian immediately looked at me.
Then at the doctor.
Something in her expression betrayed the truth.
He entered.
“What is it?”
Neither of us answered quickly enough.
Dorian stopped breathing.
His gaze dropped toward my stomach.
“Alina.”
I swallowed.
“I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
Not the controlled silence I knew.
Not calculation.
Shock.
His face lost color.
“How far?”
“Eight or nine weeks.”
He turned away.
For one terrifying second I thought he didn’t want the baby.
Then he put both hands against the wall and lowered his head.
His shoulders moved once.
Dorian Cross—the man I had watched remain calm after being shot, sued, investigated and publicly accused of crimes nobody could prove—looked like someone had driven a knife into his chest.
When he turned back, his eyes were wet.
I had never seen him cry.
Not once.
He crossed the room slowly.
“Is the baby okay?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Something in his expression hardened.
“Then find out.”
Dr. Mercer remained calm.
“We’re arranging an ultrasound now.”
“Today?”
“Immediately.”
He nodded.
Then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
And everything about him changed.
The emotion disappeared.
Coldness replaced it.
He answered.
“Speak.”
I couldn’t hear the person on the other side.
But I saw Dorian’s eyes move toward me.
His face became terrifyingly still.
“When?”
Another pause.
“Are you certain?”
His gaze stayed on me.
Then came four words I would remember for the rest of my life.
“Lock down the house.”
My heart began pounding.
Dorian ended the call.
“What happened?”
He didn’t answer.
“Dorian.”
He stepped closer.
“The brake line on your car was cut.”
My blood went cold.
“What?”
“The car you left at your apartment this morning.”
I stared at him.
He continued.
“Caleb sent someone to retrieve it after we came here. They found the line deliberately damaged.”
I felt suddenly unable to breathe.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
His voice became frighteningly calm.
“It isn’t.”
“Who would—”
“I don’t know yet.”
Then Dorian looked toward my stomach.
And the realization struck us both at exactly the same moment.
If I had driven myself to the divorce meeting instead of taking a cab...
I might never have reached the office.
Dorian stepped close enough that I could smell the faint cedar of his cologne.
“The divorce is over.”
My anger returned instantly.
“You don’t decide that.”
“No. You do.”
“Then I’m still leaving.”
“After today, if you still want the divorce, I will sign every page.”
He paused.
“But until I know who tried to kill you, you are not going back to that apartment.”
My mouth went dry.
“And where exactly am I supposed to go?”
His answer came without hesitation.
“Home.”
The word hurt.
“That penthouse stopped being my home when you stopped coming to bed.”
Pain crossed his face.
This time he didn’t hide it quickly enough.
“I know.”
“Then tell me why.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
For the first time in six months, I saw something behind his coldness.
Not indifference.
Guilt.
Terrible guilt.
“I can’t.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Then nothing has changed.”
Dorian’s eyes hardened.
“Yes, it has.”
He looked at my stomach again.
“Because somebody just tried to kill my wife.”
Then his phone buzzed.
He checked the message.
Whatever he read made all the color leave his face.
“What now?”
He slowly turned the screen toward me.
It was a photograph.
Taken that morning.
Me leaving my apartment.
Someone had photographed me from across the street.
Underneath it was one sentence.
May you like
SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE IN THE CAR.
And suddenly, my marriage was no longer the most frightening thing in my life.
