Chapter 3

The dining room at the Montgomery estate in the Hamptons was a cavern of polished mahogany and quiet judgment. A crystal chandelier dripped light onto a table long enough to land a small plane on. Fiona sat beside Holland, the space between them a frozen tundra.

This was their first official family dinner as a married couple, and the weight of a dozen pairs of scrutinizing eyes was a physical pressure on her shoulders. Millicent Montgomery, the family's elegant, iron-willed matriarch and Holland's grandmother, sat at the head of the table, her gaze as sharp as the tines of her silver fork.

A butler, silent as a ghost, placed a plate of Lobster Thermidor in front of her. The scent of rich butter and broiled seafood hit her first. Her stomach lurched violently. A wave of nausea, hot and acidic, surged up her throat.

She gripped the thick linen of the tablecloth under the table, her knuckles straining. Breathe. Just breathe.

Holland noticed her stiffen. He shot her a look-not of concern, but of cold warning. He thought this was another one of her acts, a play for sympathy in front of his family.

"Fiona, dear," Millicent's smooth voice cut through the low hum of conversation. "You look a bit pale. Is the food not to your liking?"

Fiona forced a smile that felt like cracking plaster. "No, Mrs. Montgomery, it's delicious. I'm just... not very hungry tonight."

As if on cue, another server presented the next course: black truffle risotto. The earthy, pungent aroma was the final assault.

She couldn't stop it. A gag reflex took over. Fiona slapped a hand over her mouth, pushed her chair back with a screech, and fled towards the powder room.

The dining room fell silent. Every eye turned to Holland.

Millicent's perfectly tweezed eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. She set down her fork and knife, her gaze pinning her grandson to his chair. "Holland," she said, her voice laced with meaning. "What's wrong with Fiona?"

A distant cousin piped up with a laugh. "Don't tell me there's already a bun in the oven!"

Holland's face darkened. The casual joke landed like an accusation, making him look like a fool who'd been easily trapped. He felt the heat of humiliation creep up his neck.

He dabbed his lips with his napkin, his movements sharp and angry. "You're mistaken," he said, his voice dropping to a near-polar temperature. "She can't be pregnant."

The finality in his tone sucked the remaining warmth from the room.

"And why are you so certain of that?" Millicent pressed, her gaze unwavering.

Holland glanced towards the powder room, his expression merciless. He decided to kill any and all speculation right there. "Because our prenuptial agreement stipulates that she is on birth control," he announced to the silent table. He paused, letting the weight of his next words sink in. "Our family has certain standards. There will be no... surprises."

The implication was brutal, a public branding. He had just declared his new wife a potential source of trouble, a liability to be managed.

Fiona had just stepped out of the powder room, her face still damp from the cold water she'd splashed on it. His last words hit her with the force of a physical slap.

She froze in the doorway. The blood in her veins turned to ice. She saw it all in a flash-the pity in one aunt's eyes, the undisguised contempt in another's, the morbid curiosity on every face. She felt naked, dissected on the polished floor of this grand, cold house.

She took a breath, then another, forcing her legs to move. She walked back to her seat, her head held high. Her voice was hoarse but steady when she spoke. "I apologize for the interruption."

She turned to Millicent, offering a plausible, if flimsy, excuse. "I think I have a bit of a stomach flu. Rich foods seem to be upsetting it."

The explanation was logical enough. It seemed to satisfy most of the table, who quickly busied themselves with their food, eager to move past the excruciating moment.

Millicent gave her a long, unreadable look, then nodded to the butler. "Bring Mrs. Montgomery a glass of warm water with lemon."

The rest of the dinner passed in a thick, suffocating silence.

Back in the guest suite they were assigned, the facade shattered. Holland slammed the door shut and grabbed her arm, spinning her around to face him. He pushed her against the wall, his face inches from hers, his eyes burning with rage.

"You had better have the goddamn stomach flu," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "If you ever, ever try to pull a stunt like that again, I will make you regret the day you were born."

Fiona didn't struggle. She didn't flinch. She just looked at him, her eyes a dead, empty expanse.

"Holland," she said, her voice devoid of all emotion. "Believe me. No one wants an accident to happen less than I do."

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