I'd been with him for seven years.

He was going to marry someone else.

That last night, he was relentless — every position, every hour, like he was trying to memorize something he was about to lose. When I woke up, he was already dressed in his suit, and he was watching me with that look he had when he'd already decided something. He leaned over and slipped a ring onto my finger. Five carats. Cushion cut.

"A goodbye gift," Zayne said, his voice low. "Come to me every night after this. Same as before."

I went still.

He smiled — the lazy, unhurried smile of a man who'd never had a reason to rush. "You actually thought I was leaving? You really thought you could just walk away from me?"

"My fiancée has a jealous streak," he continued. "I'd rather she didn't know about us. You understand." He paused. "I've arranged a blind date for you tonight. The Pemberton heir. Consider it a favor."

I looked at the ring on my finger.

I knew — had known the moment he said fiancée — that the morning I walked out that door, I'd be boarding the first flight back to Chicago. And I'd never come back.

His words hit me like a slap to the face. I sat at the edge of the bed and looked at him — sprawled against the headboard, that effortless arrogance that I'd spent seven years learning to call home — and felt the familiar sting climb from my chest into my throat.

From eighteen to twenty-four. Six years. Then twenty-four to now.

Seven years with Zayne Crane.

In the beginning, he'd sent a car to pick me up from Columbia every other day. Later, except for classes, I'd spent most of my time here, in this penthouse that looked out over Central Park and the Hudson River glittering below like spilled ink.

I'd adopted Toast — an orange tabby who'd shown up on the fire escape. Zayne was busy, always busy, but he'd still had the patience to sit with me choosing cat toys at the pet shop. He'd made me chicken noodle soup when I was sick. He'd taught me to ride horses, to read a financial report, to recognize what made a story worth telling.

We'd functioned like a real couple.

I moved my gaze back to the ring. Five carats. I'd always liked this cut.

He bent down and kissed my lips, his voice rough and low: "Isn't this the one you always wanted? Consider it a parting gift."

Then: "From now on, we're just colleagues. Jade Hartley is a Hollywood actress — you're the prime-time anchor at Crane News. Don't let this become something ugly. I protect what's mine."

That last line was a warning dressed as a compliment. The acid rose in my eyes.

I tried to smile. I tried to say something.

My stomach lurched — sudden, violent — and I barely made it to the bathroom in time.

"Raina."

Zayne had followed me in. He stood in the doorway, his gaze dropping to my abdomen with the focused stillness of someone running a calculation.

"The Crane family doesn't do illegitimate heirs," he said. Flat. Matter-of-fact. "You know what the consequences are if someone tries."

My breath caught. I moved my hand away from my stomach as casually as I could manage and looked up at him.

"I haven't slept," I said. "I think I caught a chill."

He held my gaze for a moment. Then he turned and walked out.

I let out a breath.

I'd found out yesterday. A clinic on the east side, a doctor I'd never seen before, a date I had to count backward to reach — his birthday, six weeks ago. He'd said he didn't want to use protection that night. I'd been so tired I'd forgotten to take the pill.

I'd been going to tell him. I'd actually planned the words.

Then I'd seen the wedding invitation on his desk.

The Crane family's methods I already knew. Six years ago I'd made the mistake of opening an email from an unknown sender — photographs of Zayne's older brother and the model he'd been keeping, taken shortly after the baby was born. By the next week, both mother and child had disappeared from every record I could find.

I'd had nightmares for a month.

I reached into my bag. The ultrasound was still there — a small black smudge on a pale gray field. I looked at it for a long time. I thought about a lot of things.

Then I folded it once, and again, and dropped it in the wastebasket.