I stepped out onto the terrace to get some air, and that's when he appeared in the doorway behind me. He stopped when he saw me standing there, and his face went blank - the warmth gone, the cold mask back in place so fast it made my chest ache.

"Grandmother's asking for you," I said quickly. "In the study."

He said nothing. He walked past me without a word.

I stood on the terrace and breathed through the tightness in my ribs until it faded.

(Author's POV)

Christian stepped into the study. Both Eleanor and Richard were waiting.

Eleanor spoke first. "I know you don't have feelings for her. But the baby is almost here. And Evelyn is not a bad choice - Ivy League education, sensible temperament. What your marriage needs right now is stability. She's the right person to stay home and raise that child."

Christian said nothing. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Richard leaned forward. "This isn't the time for upheaval. If you truly can't stand her, fine - but as long as she hasn't done anything disgraceful, you keep this marriage intact for another year or two. That's all I'm asking."

"The board is watching," Eleanor added. "The press is watching. They're all waiting for something to use against you. Let her recover from the birth first. After that, if you still want out, we won't stop you."

Christian stood quietly for a moment, his expression unreadable.

"I understand," he said. "Thank you, Grandfather. Grandmother."

(Evelyn's POV)

Eleanor found me in the sitting room and told me Christian had been called away on urgent business. A driver would take me home.

I nodded.

Before I left, she touched my arm lightly. "Pregnancy is hard on the body. But don't let yourself go entirely. A little exercise. Keep yourself together."

I understood exactly what she meant. A Sinclair wife had a standard to maintain. If I wanted to hold any ground in this family, I needed to stop looking like someone who had already given up.

The thing was, I had thought about this before. I'd looked up prenatal yoga classes months ago and never followed through. I'd told myself I was too tired. Too low. Too everything.

Eleanor wasn't wrong. But I wasn't going to do this for the Sinclairs. I was going to do it for myself - for the life I was going to build when this was all over.

That evening, I was surprised to hear the front door open.

The man who had told me this morning that we'd be divorcing after the birth walked through it like he owned the place - which, technically, he did.

"Make me a coffee," Christian said, not breaking stride toward the stairs. "Black. Bring it to the study."

I stood in the hallway for a moment, then went to the kitchen.

When I brought the coffee up, he was already behind his desk, a stack of documents spread in front of him, his expression closed and remote. I set the cup down without a word and left.

We slept in separate rooms. We had from the beginning.

The next morning, the housekeeper put out a full breakfast because Christian was home. Eggs, toast, smoked salmon, fresh-squeezed orange juice - the kind of spread that only appeared when he was present.

He sat at the head of the table alone.

Martha appeared in the doorway of the kitchen with an expression like she'd already decided the morning was going to be a problem.

"Where is she?" Christian asked, not looking up from his phone.

"I knocked on her door at seven-thirty," Martha said, her voice carrying that particular note of grievance she reserved for conversations about me. "She just lay there. Every single morning she makes us bring breakfast up to the room. Acts like she's the Queen of England."

Christian set his phone down. "Go get her."

Martha didn't knock. She pushed the door open and found me sitting on the sofa, already dressed.

"Still think you're too good to come down on your own?" she said. "We have to come begging three times before you'll move?"

"I wasn't keeping anyone waiting," I said. "And I didn't ask you to beg. I'd also appreciate it if you knocked next time."

Martha blinked. In four months, I had never spoken to her like that.

I hadn't planned to. But I was done with two months still ahead of me, and I was not going to spend them absorbing this woman's contempt without saying a word.

"Mr. Sinclair is waiting for you," she said, her voice clipped, and walked out.

I came downstairs and took my seat at the far end of the table. Christian glanced up, his eyes moving over my white knit cardigan - stretched out of shape, I knew, the fabric pulling across my stomach.

"Martha and the others were brought over from the estate," he said. "They're experienced staff. You can't expect them to cater to every whim."

I stirred my oatmeal. "If taking care of me is such a burden, send them back to the estate. I can manage on my own."

His brow furrowed. I recognized that expression.

"I'm not asking for your opinion," he said. "I'm telling you how things are going to be."

I looked down at my bowl and said nothing.

He stared at me for a moment - at my stillness, the flatness of my face - and something shifted in his expression. He turned to Martha.

"From now on, she handles her own things. You don't need to attend to her."

My hand tightened around the spoon.

I didn't look up.

After Christian left for the office, I took a car across the city to the university campus. The building was quiet at this hour, all polished floors and the faint smell of old books.

I stopped in front of Alexander Pierce's office door.

Through the narrow glass panel, I could see him at his desk - a well-cut suit, wire-rimmed glasses, the unhurried focus of someone who had never needed to prove himself to anyone. Twenty-seven years old and already the youngest full professor in the finance department, already a name that made people sit up straighter when they heard it on Wall Street.

I took a slow breath.