FORTUNE SECRETS WITH THE BILLIONAIRE

The pregnancy test clattered into the bathroom sink at 6:47 a.m., two pink lines sealing Ivy Monroe's fate.

She gripped the chipped porcelain, knuckles white, staring at her reflection in the water-spotted mirror. Twenty-six years old, dark circles under her green eyes, honey-blonde hair still damp from the shower she'd rushed through between her night shift at the Rothschild estate and her morning shift at the Morrison penthouse. And pregnant. Pregnant with Carter Blackwood's baby after one stupid, reckless night three weeks ago when she'd actually believed his lies about leaving his fiancée, about wanting something real.

"Ivy? You almost done in there?" Her mother's weak voice drifted through the thin apartment door. "I need my medication."

"Coming, Mom." Ivy shoved the test into her pocket, schooled her features into calm competence, and opened the door to their cramped studio. The morning light filtering through the single window illuminated her mother's gaunt face, the way cancer had hollowed out the vibrant woman who'd raised her alone after everything fell apart.

Ivy handed her the pills with water, watching her struggle to swallow. Stage four pancreatic cancer. Six months, maybe, without the experimental treatment that insurance laughed at covering. The treatment that cost thirty thousand dollars a month.

"You look tired, sweetheart." Her mother's thin hand squeezed hers. "You're working too hard."

"I'm fine." The lie came easily. Ivy had been lying for five years, ever since she'd fled her old life and become someone new. Someone invisible. Someone safe.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her supervisor at the Morrison house: *Don't bother coming in. Mrs. Morrison found out about you and Carter. You're fired.*

Ivy's stomach dropped. That was two thousand dollars a month, gone. She had three hundred dollars in her account and rent due in a week.

"I have to go to work," she said, kissing her mother's forehead, tasting the salt of her own panicked sweat. "I'll be back tonight."

She fled the apartment before her mother could see her fall apart, taking the stairs two at a time down five flights because the elevator had been broken for a month. The October morning bit through her thin jacket as she emerged onto the Queens street, the Manhattan skyline mocking her from across the river. All that money, all that power, and none of it for people like her.

The Rothschild estate loomed in the distance, but Ivy's phone buzzed again before she'd made it two blocks. Unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Miss Monroe?" A male voice, smooth and cold as winter steel. "This is James Crawford, personal attorney for Damien Blackwood. Mr. Blackwood would like to meet with you this morning. A car is waiting at the corner of your street."

Ivy froze mid-step. Damien Blackwood. Carter's uncle, the CEO who made grown men cry in boardrooms, who'd built Blackwood Industries into a twenty-billion-dollar empire through sheer ruthlessness. She'd seen him exactly once, at a family dinner she'd been serving, and he'd looked through her like she was furniture.

"I don't understand-"

"The car, Miss Monroe. Nine o'clock. Don't be late." The line went dead.

Ivy turned slowly. A black Mercedes idled at the corner, sleek and predatory. The driver's window lowered, revealing a man in a crisp suit who nodded once.

Every instinct screamed at her to run. Nothing good came from people like Damien Blackwood noticing people like her. But she thought of her mother's medication, the bills piling up, the positive pregnancy test in her pocket. She thought of Carter, who hadn't returned her calls in three weeks, who was probably laughing about the help he'd screwed while his family systematically destroyed her life.

Ivy walked to the car. She opened the door. She got in.

The interior smelled like leather and money. The driver said nothing as they glided through morning traffic, crossing the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan. Ivy watched the city transform around her, the struggling neighborhoods giving way to gleaming towers, each block an increase in zeros on invisible price tags.

They stopped in front of Blackwood Industries headquarters, a glass and steel monolith that reflected the clouds. The driver opened her door. "Fiftieth floor. Mr. Blackwood is expecting you."

The lobby was all marble and intimidation. Ivy's worn sneakers squeaked on the polished floor as she crossed to the elevator bank, aware of the security guard's eyes tracking her, aware of how obviously she didn't belong. The elevator rose so fast her ears popped, and then the doors opened directly into a penthouse office that took up the entire floor.

Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased Manhattan like a conquered kingdom. Minimalist furniture, abstract art that probably cost more than her life, and behind a massive desk of black walnut, Damien Blackwood.

He stood as she entered, and Ivy's breath caught despite everything.

At thirty-four, Damien Blackwood was devastating. Six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, with dark hair swept back from a face that could have been carved from marble. Sharp cheekbones, a jaw that suggested violence barely restrained, and eyes the color of smoke-gray with hints of blue, cold and assessing. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her rent, tailored to emphasize the lean muscle underneath. This was a man who owned rooms just by entering them.

"Miss Monroe." His voice matched his appearance-deep, controlled, with an edge that suggested he was always three moves ahead. "Sit."

It wasn't a request. Ivy sat in the chair across from his desk, spine straight, chin up. She'd learned long ago not to show fear to predators.

Damien studied her in silence, and Ivy fought the urge to fidget under that penetrating stare. Finally, he slid a manila folder across the desk. "Open it."

Inside were photographs. Ivy at the hospital with her mother. Ivy leaving her apartment. Ivy serving drinks at the party where she'd met Carter. And beneath them, documents-her real birth certificate, the one that said Ivy Sutton, daughter of Congressman Richard Sutton, before the scandal that had destroyed her family.

Her blood turned to ice. "How-"

"I know everything about you, Miss Sutton." Damien's voice was emotionless, but something flickered in those cold eyes. "Born Ivy Catherine Sutton, December 15, 1998. Daughter of Richard Sutton, the congressman who embezzled twelve million dollars from campaign donors and fled the country. You were twenty-one when the scandal broke, attending Columbia on a scholarship. After your father disappeared and your mother was diagnosed with cancer, you changed your name, dropped out, and became invisible. Five years of housekeeping and desperation." He leaned back in his chair. "And three weeks ago, you slept with my nephew."

Ivy's hands clenched in her lap. "What do you want?"

"The same thing you want, Miss Sutton. Money." He pulled out another document, this one thick and official. "My grandmother's will stipulates that I must be married with a child on the way before my thirty-fifth birthday-which is eleven months and two weeks from today-or control of Blackwood Industries transfers to my cousin Victor. My grandmother believed a man without family couldn't be trusted with a family empire." His lip curled with bitter amusement. "Sentimental nonsense, but legally binding."

"I don't see what this has to do with me."

"You're pregnant." Damien said it flatly, without question. "My nephew's indiscretion is unfortunate, but potentially useful. I'm prepared to offer you a contract marriage. You will act as my wife for one year, produce the heir required by my grandmother's will, and at the end of twelve months, you'll receive ten million dollars and a clean divorce. Your mother will receive the best cancer treatment available, fully funded, starting immediately."

Ten million dollars. Ivy's mind reeled. Her mother's treatment. A future that wasn't drowning in debt and desperation. But-

"I'm already pregnant," she said. "With Carter's baby."

"I'm aware." Damien's expression didn't change. "The contract specifies a child, not biological parentage. We'll claim the child was conceived through IVF after our marriage. No one will question it. You'll sign an NDA preventing you from ever revealing the truth, and the child will be raised with whatever arrangement we decide upon after the divorce."

"You want to buy my baby."

"I want to buy your cooperation." Damien stood, moving to the windows, his back to her. The morning light silhouetted him, making him look like a dark angel surveying his domain. "Let me be clear, Miss Sutton. I don't believe in love. I don't believe in marriage. I believe in transactions, and this is one that benefits us both. You get money and security. I keep my company. We both get what we want without the mess of emotions or expectations."

"And what if I say no?"

He turned, and the look in his eyes made her breath catch. Not threatening, exactly, but absolute. "Then you'll continue working yourself to death for pennies while your mother dies slowly because you can't afford to save her. Carter will deny the child is his-I'll make certain of it. You'll raise a baby alone in poverty, watching your mother fade, knowing you had a chance to change everything and chose pride instead." He paused. "I'm not a good man, Miss Sutton. But I'm honest about what I am. Can you say the same?"

The question landed like a blade between her ribs. Ivy thought of her mother's pills, the empty refrigerator, the positive pregnancy test. She thought of the girl she'd been five years ago, privileged and naive, before betrayal taught her that kindness was a luxury she couldn't afford.

Damien returned to his desk, pulling out a pen. "The contract is comprehensive. You'll live in my penthouse, attend events as my wife, and maintain the appearance of a legitimate marriage. In private, we'll have separate bedrooms and separate lives. No intimacy beyond what's required for public appearances. No emotional entanglements. You do your job, I do mine, and in one year, we both walk away."

"What about Carter?"

"What about him?" Damien's voice could have frozen fire. "My nephew is a spoiled child who's been coasting on the family name his entire life. He has no claim to you or the child. The contract will ensure that."

Ivy stood, moving to the windows, staring down at the city fifty floors below. Tiny cars, tiny people, all of them scrambling for their piece of the dream. She'd been scrambling for five years, running from her past, trying to survive. And here was Damien Blackwood, offering her a different kind of cage-gilded, but still a cage.

"I need a guarantee," she said finally. "My mother's treatment starts immediately. Full funding, best doctors, no matter what. Even if I-" She stopped, the words catching. "Even if I don't make it the full year."

"Done." Damien's response was immediate. "Her treatment begins today. I've already contacted Mount Sinai. She'll be transferred this afternoon."

Ivy turned to face him. "You were that sure I'd say yes?"

"I'm sure you're smart enough to recognize an opportunity when you see one." He held out the pen. "The question is whether you're brave enough to take it."

Their eyes met, and for a moment, Ivy saw something flicker in that cold gray gaze-not warmth, but recognition. Two people who'd learned that the world didn't reward the good or the hopeful, only the ruthless and the strategic.

She thought of all the lies she'd told, all the ways she'd hidden and survived. One more lie. One more performance. And her mother would live.

Ivy took the pen. She read the contract-all forty-seven pages, ignoring Damien's slight surprise that she was actually reading the fine print. Her Columbia education, cut short but not forgotten, served her well. The terms were clear: one year, ten million dollars, discretion guaranteed, biological parentage never to be revealed. She'd be bound to him legally, financially, and publicly for twelve months. After that, freedom.

She found the signature line. The pen hovered for a moment, and she thought about the last time she'd signed her real name, Ivy Sutton, on official documents. The police statement after her father disappeared. The hospital admission form for her mother's first surgery. All those moments when she'd still believed in justice and fairness and truth.

She wasn't that girl anymore.

Ivy Monroe-the identity she'd built from nothing, the mask she'd worn for five years-signed the contract. She signed away twelve months of her life to a man who looked at her like a business acquisition. She signed away the truth about her baby's father, about who she really was.

When she finished, Damien took the contract, his fingers brushing hers for just a moment. The touch was electric, and Ivy jerked her hand back, disturbed by the flash of heat that shot through her.

Damien's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes sharpened. "We'll announce the engagement tomorrow. The wedding will take place in two weeks-my grandmother's will requires a legally binding marriage, not just an engagement. You'll move into my penthouse this evening. My assistant will handle the logistics."

"Two weeks?" Ivy's voice cracked. "That's-"

"Necessary." Damien returned to his desk, already dismissing her. "Victor is actively trying to find ways to contest the will. The longer we wait, the more time he has to cause problems. We need to present a united, legally sound front immediately." He glanced up, and for the first time, something almost human flickered across his face. "I know this isn't what you imagined for your life, Miss Sutton. But neither of us can afford sentiment. We do what we must to survive."

Ivy stood frozen, the full weight of what she'd just done crashing over her. In the space of an hour, she'd gone from fired housekeeper to contracted wife of a billionaire. From invisible to the center of Manhattan's most scrutinized power play. From free to bound.

"The car will take you home to pack," Damien said, already turning to his computer. "And Miss Sutton? From this moment forward, you are Ivy Monroe, my fiancée. The woman you used to be no longer exists. If your past comes to light, it violates the contract and voids all financial arrangements. Including your mother's treatment."

The threat was clear. Ivy nodded once, not trusting her voice.

As she turned to leave, Damien's voice stopped her. "One more thing."

She looked back.

He was watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "I chose you because you're a survivor, Miss Monroe. Because you understand that sometimes we have to become someone else to stay alive. Don't make me regret believing you're strong enough for this."

Ivy lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with every ounce of defiance she had left. "I've survived worse than you, Mr. Blackwood."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, there and gone so fast she might have imagined it. "We'll see."

The elevator doors closed on his face, and Ivy sagged against the wall, her hands shaking. She pulled out her phone, seeing three missed calls from the hospital. Her mother.

"Hi, sweetie." Her mother's voice was weak but confused. "The doctors here said I'm being transferred to Mount Sinai? They said my treatment's been approved, all of it, but I don't understand how-"

"It's okay, Mom." Ivy's voice broke. "I got a new job. A really good one. Everything's going to be okay now."

It was a lie. But it was also true. In the twisted, complicated way that her life had become, it was both.

As the car drove her back to Queens, Ivy watched Manhattan's towers recede in the rearview mirror, the gilded cage she'd just agreed to enter waiting for her return. She thought about Damien Blackwood's cold eyes and colder terms. She thought about the baby growing inside her, Carter's baby, that would now become part of this elaborate deception.

And she thought about the girl she'd been, Ivy Sutton, who'd believed in love and justice and truth. That girl was dead. In her place was Ivy Monroe, survivor and liar, about to become Mrs. Damien Blackwood in a marriage built entirely on transaction and deceit.

She pressed her hand to her still-flat stomach, feeling the weight of all her choices settling like stones.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the baby, to herself, to the ghost of who she used to be. "I'm so sorry."

But sorry didn't change anything. Sorry didn't pay for cancer treatment or put food on the table or give her any option except the one she'd just taken.

The car pulled up to her building, and Ivy got out, staring up at the water-stained facade. In a few hours, she'd leave this place forever, stepping into a world of penthouses and private jets and elaborate lies. She'd become Damien Blackwood's wife, his acquisition, his solution to a problem.

And somehow, in the midst of all this deception, she'd have to find a way to survive with her soul intact.

If she had one left.

"You can't wear that."

Ivy looked down at her jeans and sweater-the nicest clothes she owned then back at the woman scrutinizing her with barely concealed horror. Margot Chen, Damien's personal assistant, was a petite Asian woman in her early forties with a sharp black bob and sharper eyes. She'd been waiting in the penthouse lobby when Ivy arrived with her two suitcases and a garbage bag of additional belongings that had made the doorman's eyebrows rise.

"I'm sorry?" Ivy said, exhaustion making her voice flat. It was eight p.m., and she'd spent the day packing her life, moving her mother to Mount Sinai, and trying not to have a complete breakdown.

"The press conference is tomorrow at ten." Margot was already typing on her phone. "Mr. Blackwood is announcing your engagement. You need appropriate clothing. I'm sending up the stylist."

"Tonight?"

"Unless you want to appear on the front page of every major publication looking like-" Margot caught herself, but the damage was done. Like hired help. Like what you are.

Ivy's jaw tightened. "Fine. Send up the stylist."

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse, and Ivy stepped into a different universe. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased Central Park and the glittering Manhattan skyline. The space was enormous,probably five thousand square feet decorated in sleek minimalism that screamed money so old it didn't need to prove anything. White walls, dark hardwood floors, modern furniture in shades of gray and black. Abstract art that Ivy suspected was legitimate, not prints. Everything perfect, everything cold, everything looking like no one actually lived here.

"Your quarters are this way." Margot's heels clicked across the floor as she led Ivy down a hallway past several closed doors. "This is Mr. Blackwood's private wing." She gestured vaguely. "You won't need to enter it. Your rooms are on the opposite side."

Separate wings. Separate lives. Exactly as Damien had promised.

Margot opened double doors onto a bedroom suite that was larger than Ivy's entire previous apartment. A California king bed with white linens, a sitting area with a view of the park, a walk-in closet currently empty except for a few hangers. An en-suite bathroom with a soaking tub and a shower that looked like it belonged in a spa.

"The stylist will be here in an hour," Margot said. "Dinner will be served at nine in the dining room. Mr. Blackwood expects you to join him."

"Where is he?"

"Working." As if that explained everything. As if Damien Blackwood's world revolved so entirely around his empire that even acquiring a wife was just another item on a to-do list.

After Margot left, Ivy sank onto the bed, her hands shaking. This was real. This was happening. In less than twenty-four hours, the world would know her as Damien Blackwood's fiancée. In two weeks, she'd be his wife.

She pulled out her phone, checking the messages from the hospital. Her mother had been settled into a private room at Mount Sinai. The oncologist had already reviewed her case. Treatment would begin Monday morning. Three days away.

Ivy pressed her palm to her stomach, feeling nothing yet, no movement, no sign of the life growing inside her. "We're going to be okay," she whispered. "Your grandmother is going to be okay. That's all that matters."

But she felt like a liar even talking to the baby. Nothing about this was okay.

The stylist arrived in a whirlwind of fabric and judgment. Lydia was a severe woman in her fifties who looked at Ivy the way a sculptor might look at particularly challenging marble. "Well," she said after a long, uncomfortable silence. "We have our work cut out for us."

For the next three hours, Ivy was transformed. Lydia brought racks of designer clothing:Dior, Chanel, Valentino, names Ivy recognized from magazines she'd flipped through in waiting rooms. Day wear, evening wear, cocktail dresses, and business casual. Shoes that cost more than she'd made in a month. Lingerie that made her blush, though Lydia assured her it was for appearances-Mr. Blackwood's bedroom eyes only, naturally.

Naturally. As if this were a real marriage. As if Damien would ever look at her with anything approaching desire.

Ivy thought of that moment in his office when their fingers had touched, the unexpected jolt of electricity. She shoved the memory away. That was her exhausted brain playing tricks. Damien Blackwood looked at her like she was a particularly useful spreadsheet, nothing more.

"For tomorrow," Lydia said, pulling out an ivory sheath dress, simple but elegant, with a modest neckline and three-quarter sleeves. "Sophisticated. Appropriate. It says 'worthy of a Blackwood' without trying too hard." She held up nude Louboutin pumps. "With these. And minimal jewelry-Mr. Blackwood's assistant will provide the engagement ring in the morning."

"I don't get a say in my own engagement ring?"

Lydia looked at her like she'd suggested showing up naked. "Mr. Blackwood has a family ring. It's expected."

Of course he did. Everything about this was expected, predetermined, a script Ivy was just learning her lines for.

At nine sharp, Margot reappeared to escort Ivy to dinner. The dining room was all dark wood and dimmed lighting, a table that could seat twelve currently set for two at one end. Damien sat at the head, still in his suit from that morning, though he'd loosened his tie. He was reading something on his tablet, and he didn't look up when Ivy entered.

She stood awkwardly until Margot cleared her throat. Damien glanced up, his eyes sweeping over her with the same emotion he might give a quarterly report. "Sit."

Ivy sat at the place set to his right, her spine rigid. A staff member she hadn't met-a middle-aged woman in a black uniform-immediately appeared with the first course. Some kind of soup with foam on top, the kind of food that was more art than sustenance.

They ate in silence. Ivy was acutely aware of every sound:her spoon against the bowl, her breathing, the faint classical music playing from hidden speakers. Damien continued reading his tablet between bites, as if she weren't there at all.

"Are we going to discuss tomorrow?" Ivy finally asked, her voice too loud in the quiet room.

Damien set down his spoon with deliberate precision. "The press conference begins at ten. We'll arrive together, unified front. I'll make a brief statement announcing our engagement. You'll smile, say nothing, and look appropriately smitten. There will be a photo opportunity. Then we'll leave. Margot has briefed you on the details?"

"She mentioned a stylist."

"Good." He picked up his tablet again. "Don't deviate from the script. Don't answer questions. The less you say, the better."

Anger flared in Ivy's chest. "I'm not an idiot, Mr. Blackwood. I understand how to play a part."

His eyes snapped to hers, and for the first time since she'd entered, she had his full attention. "Do you, Miss Monroe?" The question was soft but laced with challenge. "Because playing a part in private is very different from playing one in front of the entire world. Tomorrow, you become a public figure. Every word you say, every expression on your face, every outfit you wear will be analyzed and judged. You'll be compared to every woman I've ever been seen with, especially Serena. The press will dig into your background, looking for scandal. One mistake, one slip, and this entire arrangement falls apart."

"I know about scrutiny," Ivy said quietly. "I know what it's like to have your life destroyed in public."

Something flickered in Damien's expression-curiosity, maybe, or recognition. "Your father."

"Yes." She met his gaze steadily. "So don't lecture me about playing parts, Mr. Blackwood. I've been playing one for five years."

The silence stretched between them, charged with an intensity Ivy didn't understand. Then Damien nodded once, almost respectfully. "Fair enough." He returned to his tablet, but there was something different in the air now, a grudging acknowledgment.

They finished dinner in silence, but it felt less hostile, more... aware. Ivy caught herself watching him-the way his jaw tightened when he read something displeasing, the elegant brutality of his hands, the sheer physical presence he commanded even sitting still. He was attractive in a way that felt dangerous, like admiring a caged predator and forgetting it could kill you.

"You'll need to call me Damien in public," he said as dessert arrived,something chocolate and architectural. "We're engaged. Formality will seem strange."

"And in private?"

"Whatever you prefer." He didn't look up. "We won't be spending enough time together for it to matter."

The dismissal stung more than it should have. Ivy forced herself to eat the dessert, which tasted like ash in her mouth despite probably costing more than she'd earned in a week of housekeeping.

When dinner ended, Damien stood. "I have work to finish. Margot will brief you on tomorrow's schedule at eight a.m. Be ready by nine-thirty."

"That's it? No preparation? No discussion about our story?"

"Our story is simple." Damien's voice was clipped, efficient. "We met at a charity event three months ago. I was struck by your intelligence and grace. We've been seeing each other privately, keeping the relationship quiet until we were certain. The baby was a surprise but a welcome one. We're deeply in love." The last words were delivered with such clinical detachment they could have been a weather report. "Memorize it. Believe it. Live it."

He left without another word, his footsteps echoing down the hallway to his private wing. Ivy sat alone in the cavernous dining room, surrounded by abstract art and uncomfortable silence, trying not to feel like she'd just been dismissed by her employer.

Which, technically, she had been.

She couldn't sleep. At two a.m., Ivy gave up trying and wandered out of her bedroom, drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows and the glittering expanse of Manhattan below. The city never truly slept-even at this hour, lights blazed in towers full of people chasing their own desperate dreams.

"Can't sleep either?"

Ivy spun around. Damien stood in the shadows near the hallway, wearing black pajama pants and nothing else. Her breath caught. Without the armor of his suit, he was somehow more devastating-lean muscle and hard edges, a body that spoke of disciplined hours in a private gym. A scar ran along his left ribcage, white against tanned skin.

"I didn't mean to disturb you," she managed.

"You didn't." He moved into the moonlight streaming through the windows, and Ivy saw the tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. Scotch, probably. Something expensive and old. "I rarely sleep well."

"Bad conscience?" The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Damien's lips curved, not quite a smile. "Something like that." He studied her, and Ivy was suddenly aware that she wore only the silk nightgown Lydia had insisted she needed-cream-colored, modest by lingerie standards but still intimate. "You're nervous about tomorrow."

"Aren't you?"

"No." He moved to the windows, standing a few feet from her, both of them staring out at the conquered city. "I've been preparing for this my entire life. Public scrutiny, media manipulation, maintaining an image. It's second nature."

"Must be lonely," Ivy said quietly. "Never being yourself."

Damien looked at her sharply, and she saw something crack in that controlled facade-surprise, maybe, or recognition. "Who says there's a self beneath the image? Maybe the performance is all there is."

"I don't believe that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm the same," Ivy admitted. "I've been someone else for so long, sometimes I forget who I was before. But she's still there, underneath. Buried, maybe. Broken. But there."

The silence between them felt heavy with things unsaid. Damien took a long drink, his throat working, and Ivy found herself watching the movement, fascinated despite herself.

"Serena used to say I had no heart," he said finally, his voice distant. "That I was a machine in a suit. She said it was like loving a ghost;I was there, physically present, but emotionally absent. That's why she left. Or one of the reasons."

Ivy heard the pain beneath the clinical words, carefully hidden but there nonetheless. "How long were you together?"

"Five years. We were engaged for one before she called it off." Damien's jaw tightened. "Three days before the wedding, actually. She sent a text. 'I can't marry someone who doesn't know how to feel.' Then she was photographed in St. Barts with Marcus, my former best friend and COO. They're married now. He runs a competing hedge fund."

"Jesus," Ivy breathed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Damien's voice hardened. "She was right. I don't know how to feel, not the way normal people do. I know strategy and transactions and how to win. Emotions are liabilities. Weaknesses to exploit."

"Is that why you chose this arrangement? A marriage without feelings?"

"Exactly why." He turned to face her fully, and the moonlight cast his features in sharp relief-beautiful and brutal. "I won't be betrayed again. I won't trust someone enough to give them that power. This way, we both know where we stand. Clean. Honest. Safe."

But Ivy saw the lie in his words. There was nothing safe about standing here with him in the darkness, the air between them charged with something neither acknowledged. Nothing clean about the way her body responded to his presence, aware of every inch of distance separating them.

"What about you?" Damien asked. "Why did you really run five years ago? It wasn't just your father's crimes."

Ivy's hands clenched. She'd never told anyone the whole truth. But something about the darkness, the late hour, the strange intimacy of this moment made the words spill out.

"There was a boy," she said. "Reese Winters. We'd been together since high school-first love, you know? Planning to get married after college. His family was society-old money, impeccable connections. My father was a congressman, respected. We seemed perfect together." She laughed bitterly. "When the scandal broke, when the evidence of my father's embezzlement became public, Reese's family held a press conference. They denounced my entire family as frauds and criminals. Reese stood beside his mother and said... he said being with me was the biggest mistake of his life. That he'd been trying to end things for months but I'd been too pathetic and clingy to let him go."

"He was lying," Damien said flatly.

"Of course he was lying." Ivy's voice cracked. "But it didn't matter. The damage was done. I became the gold-digging daughter of a criminal, desperately clinging to my social-climbing relationship. Columbia withdrew my scholarship. My friends vanished. I got death threats. And Reese got engaged to someone more 'appropriate' three months later."

"His sister," Damien said slowly. "Serena Winters. Reese is Marcus's brother-in-law."

Ivy's head snapped up. She'd known the name Winters had sounded familiar, but she'd been too overwhelmed by everything to make the connection. "Your ex-fiancée is-"

"The sister of the man who destroyed your reputation. Yes." Damien's expression had gone cold, calculating. "Small world, Manhattan society. Everyone connected, everyone with secrets."

"Does she know? About me?"

"I doubt it. You changed your name, disappeared. And Serena doesn't pay attention to people she considers beneath her." His voice held contempt. "But if she finds out, she'll use it. She's been trying to convince me to reconcile ever since the will reading made my marriage requirement public."

Ivy felt sick. "This is going to be a disaster."

"Not if we control the narrative." Damien moved closer, and Ivy's breath caught. He was inches away now, close enough that she could smell his cologne,something expensive and masculine, cedar and smoke. "Listen to me, Ivy. Tomorrow, we present a united front. We sell the fairy tale. Poor girl meets ruthless CEO, he falls for her because of her humble circumstances. It's a story people want to believe. Romance, transformation, love conquering social boundaries. Give them that."

"And what do we do when they dig into my past and discover I'm not a poor girl at all? That I'm the disgraced Ivy Sutton?"

"Then we control that narrative too." Damien's hand came up, and for a shocking moment, Ivy thought he might touch her face. Instead, he gripped the window frame beside her, effectively caging her against the glass. "We say you rebuilt yourself through determination and hard work. That you chose integrity over your father's corruption. That you're a survivor, not a victim. We turn your past into an asset, proof of your character."

His body heat radiated between them. Ivy's heart hammered against her ribs, and she wasn't sure if it was fear or something far more dangerous. This close, she could see flecks of blue in his gray eyes, could trace the hard line of his jaw, could feel the leashed power in his frame.

"You've thought about this," she whispered.

"I think about everything." His gaze dropped to her mouth for just a second, so fast she might have imagined it. Then he pushed away, putting distance between them, and the moment shattered. "Get some sleep, Ivy. Tomorrow, we change both our lives."

He disappeared down the hallway to his wing, leaving her alone with her racing heart and the uncomfortable realization that maybe, just maybe, this arrangement was more complicated than a simple business transaction.

Because the way Damien had looked at her just now;cold and calculating, yes, but something else underneath, something hungry-suggested that keeping emotions out of this marriage might be harder than either of them anticipated.

The press conference was a circus.

Ivy stood beside Damien on a small platform in the lobby of Blackwood Industries, camera flashes exploding like a strobe light, reporters shouting questions over each other. She wore the ivory dress Lydia had chosen, her hair styled in loose waves, minimal makeup that made her look fresh and natural. On her left hand, a stunning emerald-cut diamond caught the light-the Blackwood family ring, five carats of old money and older expectations.

Damien's hand rested on the small of her back, possessive and warm through the thin fabric. He wore a navy suit that made his eyes look more blue than gray, and he faced the crowd with the confidence of a man who owned not just the building but the entire moment.

"Thank you all for coming," Damien's voice cut through the chaos, instantly commanding silence. "I have a brief announcement. Three months ago, I met an extraordinary woman at the Children's Hospital charity gala. Ivy Monroe captured my attention immediately not because of her beauty, though that was undeniable, but because of her compassion, her intelligence, and her dedication to helping others despite her own challenges."

Ivy forced herself to smile adoringly at him, the way a woman in love would. His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on her waist, a signal that she was doing well.

"We've been seeing each other privately since that night," Damien continued. "Keeping our relationship quiet until we were certain this was real. Ivy has shown me what truly matters in life not just building empires, but building a future with someone who challenges you, grounds you, and makes you want to be better than you are."

The lies rolled off his tongue with perfect sincerity. Ivy wondered if anything he said was ever entirely true, or if his whole life was performance.

"Last week, I asked Ivy to marry me. She's agreed to be my wife." Damien smiled:an expression Ivy had never seen on his face before, warm and genuine-looking, completely manufactured. "We're also thrilled to announce that we're expecting our first child. We couldn't be happier."

The crowd erupted. Questions flew like bullets.

"Ivy, how does it feel to be engaged to one of New York's most eligible bachelors?"

"Mr. Blackwood, was this a response to your grandmother's will requirements?"

"When's the wedding?"

"How far along is the pregnancy?"

"What does Serena Winters think about this?"

Damien raised his hand, and silence fell again. His control was absolute. "We'll be married in a private ceremony two weeks from today. As for the rest-my personal life is exactly that. Personal. Ivy and I request privacy as we begin this journey together. Thank you."

He started to guide Ivy off the platform, but one reporter's voice cut through: "Miss Monroe, what was it like working as a housekeeper? Is it true you were employed by the Morrison family until recently?"

Ivy froze. Damien's hand tightened warningly on her waist, but she could feel the energy shift in the room. Blood in the water. The sharks circling.

She turned back to the microphones, ignoring Damien's sharp intake of breath. "Yes, I worked as a housekeeper," she said clearly. "I've worked several jobs to support my mother through her cancer treatment. I'm not ashamed of honest work." She looked directly at the reporter. "I'm proud of the woman I've become through those experiences. They taught me the value of hard work, humility, and gratitude;lessons I'll carry into my marriage and my future role as a mother."

The room went silent for a heartbeat. Then the cameras went crazy, flashes intensifying, reporters shouting follow-ups. But Damien was already moving, his hand firm on her back as he steered her toward the waiting elevator, security keeping the press at bay.

The elevator doors closed on the chaos. Damien rounded on her immediately.

"What the hell was that?" His voice was low, dangerous. "I told you not to answer questions."

"They already knew," Ivy shot back. "About my work, about the Morrisons. Ignoring it would have made it look shameful. At least now we control the narrative,exactly like you said."

"I control the narrative," Damien corrected coldly. "You follow the script. That's the arrangement."

"The arrangement is that I play your wife convincingly," Ivy said, her own temper rising. "A real wife wouldn't just smile mutely while reporters imply she's a gold digger. She'd defend herself. That's what I did."

They stared at each other, the small elevator space suddenly suffocating. Damien's jaw was tight, his eyes furious, but there was something else there too-a flicker of what might have been respect, quickly suppressed.

"You took a risk," he said finally.

"Yes."

"It could have backfired."

"But it didn't."

The elevator opened onto the penthouse. Damien strode out, pulling his phone from his pocket. Margot appeared instantly, tablet in hand.

"Initial responses?" Damien asked.

"Mixed but trending positive," Margot reported, scrolling rapidly. "Social media likes the Cinderella angle. 'Billionaire falls for honest working woman' is playing well. Several think pieces already being drafted about class and modern romance. TMZ called it 'surprisingly authentic.' The Atlantic wants an exclusive interview-"

"No interviews," Damien said sharply. "Monitor the coverage. Let me know if anything problematic surfaces. And find out who leaked Ivy's employment history."

Margot nodded and disappeared. Damien turned back to Ivy, his expression unreadable. "You should rest. Tomorrow we meet with the wedding planner. The following day, you'll visit your mother-accompanied by me. Public appearances of family devotion."

"You're going to meet my mother?" Ivy hadn't expected that.

"We're engaged. It's expected." Damien loosened his tie. "Besides, the optics are good-devoted fiancé, caring about his bride's sick mother. It reinforces the love story."

Everything was strategy with him. Every move calculated. Ivy wondered if he'd ever done anything spontaneous in his life.

"What if she asks questions?" Ivy said. "My mother isn't stupid. She'll know something's off."

"Then convince her otherwise." Damien's voice was flat. "That's what you're being paid for."

The words stung like a slap. Ivy's hands clenched at her sides. "Right. Of course. Silly of me to think you might actually care about meeting the woman who raised me."

"Caring is irrelevant," Damien said coldly. "We have a job to do. Do yours, and I'll do mine."

He walked away, leaving Ivy alone in the vast, empty space of the penthouse. She looked down at the massive diamond on her finger, catching the light, beautiful and hollow.

This was her life now. This was the choice she'd made.

And somehow, she had to survive it for twelve more months.

The hospital room smelled like antiseptic and dying flowers.

Ivy stood in the doorway of her mother's private room at Mount Sinai, struck by how small she looked in the hospital bed. Catherine Monroe:once Catherine Sutton, before they'd both changed their names and fled their old lives-had always been a force of nature. Sharp-tongued, brilliant, a political strategist who'd helped elect senators and shape policy before everything collapsed. Now cancer had whittled her down to bones and papery skin, her dark hair gone thin from treatments.

But her eyes were still sharp when they landed on Damien Blackwood standing beside Ivy.

"Well," Catherine said, her voice weak but dry with amusement. "This is unexpected."

Damien moved forward with easy confidence, the perfect devoted fiancé. He'd dressed down for the visit-still expensive, but dark jeans and a black sweater instead of a suit, an attempt at casual that somehow made him look even more devastating. "Mrs. Monroe. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Damien Blackwood."

"I know who you are." Catherine's eyes narrowed. "I made it my business to know after my daughter called saying her 'new job' involved moving into a penthouse overnight." She looked at Ivy. "Did you think I wouldn't ask questions, sweetheart?"

Ivy's stomach dropped. She should have known her mother would investigate. Catherine might be dying, but she wasn't helpless. "Mom-"

"Sit down, both of you." Catherine gestured to the chairs beside her bed. "And tell me what's really going on here."

Damien sat with easy grace, apparently unfazed. Ivy remained standing, her mind racing through possible explanations, ways to spin this that wouldn't worry her mother, wouldn't reveal the contract, wouldn't-

"We're getting married because I need a wife and Ivy needs money for your treatment," Damien said calmly. "It's a business arrangement that benefits us both. We're both aware of what this is. No one is being deceived."

Ivy's head snapped toward him. What the hell was he doing?

Catherine was silent for a long moment, studying Damien with an intensity that had once made politicians squirm. "At least you're honest about it."

"I don't see the point in lying to a woman clearly intelligent enough to see through it," Damien replied. "You want to know if I'm going to hurt your daughter. The answer is no, not intentionally. We have a contract. Clear terms. Clear benefits. At the end of one year, Ivy will walk away financially secure, and your medical care will continue to be fully funded regardless of our marital status."

"How generous." Catherine's voice dripped sarcasm. "And what about her heart? What about the year of her life you're buying? What happens when this business arrangement gets messy, as these things always do?"

"It won't," Damien said firmly. "We're both going into this with our eyes open. No false expectations. No romantic delusions."

Catherine looked at Ivy. "Is this what you want, sweetheart?"

Ivy sank into the chair, taking her mother's thin hand. The IVs and monitors made her look so fragile, so mortal. "I want you to live, Mom. I want you to get the treatment that will actually work. This is how I make that happen."

"By selling yourself to a stranger?"

"By making a strategic choice," Ivy corrected. "Isn't that what you always taught me? That sometimes survival requires making hard decisions?"

Catherine's eyes glistened. "Not like this. Not sacrificing your future for me."

"I'm not sacrificing anything." Ivy squeezed her mother's hand gently. "It's one year. And at the end, I'll have enough money to actually build a future,for me and for the baby."

"The baby." Catherine's gaze sharpened, moving between Ivy and Damien. "That part of the arrangement too?"

"No," Ivy said quietly. "That was my mistake before any of this. But Damien has agreed to claim the child as his, to provide for it. The baby gets a secure future too."

Catherine was silent, absorbing this. Then she looked at Damien with an expression Ivy recognized-the one that had once made her father confess to affairs, made campaign managers admit to embezzlement, made truth spill out in self-defense.

"You know who we really are," Catherine said. It wasn't a question.

Damien nodded. "Ivy Sutton. Daughter of Richard Sutton. Yes, I know."

"And you're not concerned about the scandal? About your pristine reputation being linked to a disgraced family?"

"I'm more concerned about my cousin seizing control of my company," Damien replied. "Everything else is manageable. Besides, your ex-husband's crimes aren't Ivy's responsibility. She was a victim of his actions, not a co-conspirator."

"That's not how the world saw it," Catherine said bitterly. "They destroyed her. A twenty-one-year-old girl, and they tore her apart in the press."

"They did," Damien agreed. "Which is why if her past comes to light, we'll control how it's presented. Ivy rebuilt herself through honest work and determination. That's admirable, not shameful. Any media outlet that tries to make it otherwise will find themselves dealing with my legal team."

Despite everything, Ivy felt a flicker of warmth toward him. He was defending her strategically, yes, as part of protecting his investment, but still. It was more than anyone else had done five years ago.

Catherine studied Damien for another long moment. Then she sighed. "You're cold, Mr. Blackwood. Calculating. Everything about you screams danger." She looked at Ivy. "But he's honest about what he is. That's rarer than you'd think."

"I'm not going to hurt her, Mrs. Monroe," Damien said quietly. "That's not part of our agreement."

"Hurt comes in many forms," Catherine replied. "Not all of them are intentional."

The door opened, interrupting the moment. A nurse entered with medications, and the conversation shifted to treatment protocols and schedules. Damien listened with apparent interest, asking intelligent questions about the experimental therapy Catherine was starting, the expected timeline, the side effects.

He was good at this, Ivy realized. The performance of caring. He looked like a concerned future son-in-law, attentive and supportive. If she didn't know better, she'd believe he actually gave a damn.

But she did know better. This was just another role, another strategic play.

After thirty minutes, Catherine's energy was clearly flagging. Damien stood smoothly. "We should let you rest. But I'll ensure you have everything you need-anything at all, just tell the staff. They have instructions to accommodate any request."

Catherine's eyes softened slightly. "Thank you, Mr. Blackwood."

"Damien," he corrected gently. "We're family now."

The word 'family' hung in the air like a beautiful lie. Ivy kissed her mother's forehead, promising to return tomorrow, and followed Damien into the hallway. They walked in silence to the elevator, and Ivy waited until they were inside, doors closed, before rounding on him.

"Why did you tell her the truth?"

"Because she deserved it," Damien said simply. "And because she would have figured it out anyway. Your mother is sharp, Ivy. Lying to her would have only created more problems."

"You could have jeopardized everything! The NDA-"

"Includes provisions for immediate family," Damien interrupted. "Your mother is covered under confidentiality requirements. She can't reveal the arrangement without facing legal consequences, which she won't risk because it would void your contract and end her treatment." His voice was matter-of-fact. "I read the fine print, Ivy. Did you?"

She had, actually, but she'd missed that particular clause. Ivy sagged against the elevator wall, suddenly exhausted. "I thought you'd be angry. About her knowing."

"Why would I be angry about honesty?" Damien's gray eyes studied her. "The whole point of this arrangement is that we both know what it is. Pretending otherwise helps no one."

The elevator opened onto the hospital lobby. Damien's driver was waiting at the curb, the black Mercedes gleaming in the afternoon sun. But as they approached, a commotion erupted:cameras flashing, reporters appearing from nowhere, shouting questions.

"Mr. Blackwood! Is it true you're only marrying to satisfy your grandmother's will?"

"Ivy! How does it feel to go from housekeeper to billionaire's wife?"

"Are you pregnant with Damien's baby or someone else's?"

Damien's hand found the small of Ivy's back, guiding her forward through the chaos with security materializing around them. His face was a mask of cold displeasure, but he said nothing, just moved with purposeful authority toward the car.

They were almost there when a familiar voice cut through the noise.

"Ivy! Ivy Sutton!"

Ivy's blood turned to ice. She turned slowly, and there he was-Reese Winters, older but still recognizable. Handsome in that polished, preppy way, wearing a suit that screamed family money. His blue eyes held malicious satisfaction.

"It is you," Reese said, loud enough for every camera to hear. "I thought so when I saw the engagement photos. Ivy Sutton, daughter of the criminal Richard Sutton. Looks like you've found another family to gold-dig your way into."

The cameras went absolutely insane. Ivy stood frozen, five years of carefully constructed identity crumbling in seconds. Beside her, she felt Damien go still, his body radiating lethal tension.

"I don't believe we've met," Damien said, his voice dangerously soft. "You are?"

"Reese Winters. I used to date Ivy, back when she was still pretending to be someone respectable." Reese smiled, all teeth and venom. "Did you tell him, Ivy? About how you tried to trap me into marriage? About how your family bilked millions from honest donors?"

"That's enough," Damien said flatly.

"Oh, I don't think so." Reese stepped closer, and Ivy could smell his expensive cologne, could see the cruel satisfaction in his eyes. "The public deserves to know who you're really marrying, Blackwood. This girl is-"

He didn't get to finish. Damien moved with shocking speed, his hand shooting out to grip Reese's wrist in what looked like a friendly handshake but was clearly painful based on Reese's sudden grimace.

"Listen very carefully," Damien said, his voice low enough that only Reese and Ivy could hear. "My fiancée's past is exactly that-past. If you value your family's business connections, their social standing, or your ability to walk without a limp, you'll get out of my sight right now and never speak to or about Ivy again. Are we clear?"

Reese tried to pull away, but Damien held firm. "You can't threaten-"

"I'm not threatening. I'm making you a promise." Damien's smile was terrifying. "Your family's investment firm has three major clients that happen to be my subsidiaries. How long do you think Winters Financial survives losing all three contracts? And that's just the beginning of what I can do to you."

He released Reese's wrist with a slight shove. Reese stumbled back, his face red with humiliation and anger. But he said nothing else, just glared at both of them before disappearing into the crowd.

Damien turned to the cameras, his expression shifting to polite boredom. "My fiancée's father made mistakes that hurt many people. Ivy was not responsible for those mistakes. She was a victim of them. She's spent the last five years rebuilding her life with integrity and hard work. I admire that greatly. Anyone who attempts to smear her because of her father's crimes will be dealing with me directly. That's the last I'll say on the subject."

He guided Ivy to the car, and the security team finally got the door open. They slid inside, and the Mercedes pulled smoothly into traffic, leaving the chaos behind.

Ivy sat rigid in her seat, her hands shaking. Everything was falling apart. The contract, the arrangement, her carefully hidden identity,all of it exposed in seconds because Reese Winters was a vindictive bastard who couldn't stand seeing her potentially happy.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. This is going to destroy everything-"

"Stop." Damien's hand covered hers, startling her. His palm was warm, solid, real. "This changes nothing."

"How can you say that? My identity is exposed! The gold-digger accusations, my father's crimes, all of it is going to be front-page news-"

"Good," Damien interrupted. "Let it come out now, all at once, when we control the narrative. I meant what I said-you're not responsible for your father's actions. And the fact that you rebuilt yourself from nothing only makes you more sympathetic."

Ivy stared at him. "You're not angry?"

"Why would I be?" Damien's thumb moved absently across her knuckles, and Ivy wondered if he even realized he was still holding her hand. "I knew about your past before I made the contract. This was always a possibility. The question is-can you handle this? Can you face the media storm and hold your head high?"

Could she? Ivy thought about the girl she'd been at twenty-one, terrified and broken, fleeing in the middle of the night. She thought about the woman she'd become, surviving through sheer determination, working herself half to death to save her mother.

"Yes," she said firmly. "I can handle it."

Damien nodded, something like approval flickering in his eyes. "Then we'll face it together. United front, remember? You're not alone in this, Ivy."

The words were probably strategic, part of the performance. But sitting in the back of the car with his hand still holding hers, the city blurring past the tinted windows, Ivy let herself believe them anyway.

Just for a moment.

The media storm hit before they made it back to the penthouse.

Ivy's phone exploded with notifications:texts from numbers she didn't recognize, social media mentions that quickly overwhelmed her locked-down accounts, news alerts with headlines that made her stomach churn.

*"BILLIONAIRE'S BRIDE REVEALED AS DISGRACED POLITICIAN'S DAUGHTER"*

*"IVY SUTTON: FROM SCANDAL TO CINDERELLA?"*

*"BLACKWOOD'S PREGNANT FIANCÉE EXPOSED: THE TRUTH ABOUT IVY MONROE"*

Margot was waiting in the penthouse, tablet glowing with damage control plans. "It's manageable," she said immediately, seeing Ivy's pale face. "We're pushing the survivor narrative hard. Your mother's illness, your honest work, the fact that you were twenty-one and blameless when the scandal hit. Public sentiment is actually trending sympathetic."

"How is that possible?" Ivy asked numbly.

"Because Reese Winters looked like an asshole on camera," Margot said bluntly. "Ambushing a pregnant woman at her mother's hospital? Bad optics. And Damien's defense of you is playing very well;the protective fiancé, standing by his woman despite her past. It's romantic."

"It's strategic," Damien corrected, but his voice lacked its usual edge. He was watching Ivy with an intensity she didn't understand.

"Romance and strategy aren't mutually exclusive," Margot replied. "The Atlantic piece just posted-'Damien Blackwood Finds Love Beyond Status: How Ivy Sutton Proves Character Over Background.' It's viral."

Damien took the tablet, scanning rapidly. His expression remained neutral, but something tightened around his eyes. "Who wrote this?"

"Amanda Pierce. She's generally reputable, no history of hit pieces."

"Get her on the phone. I want to know her source."

While Margot made the call, Ivy moved to the windows, staring out at the city that was currently tearing her life apart on social media. She felt Damien approach, his presence warm at her back.

"This is temporary," he said quietly. "In three days, something else will be the story. In a week, you'll be old news. That's how the cycle works."

"Unless they keep digging," Ivy replied. "Unless they find something else. Unless-"

"Then we deal with it." Damien's voice was firm. "Together. That's the point of this arrangement, Ivy. You don't face this alone anymore."

She turned to look at him, this cold, calculating man who'd bought her presence in his life but was now defending her like she actually mattered. "Why are you being kind to me?"

Damien's expression flickered-surprise, maybe, or something more complicated. "I'm protecting my investment."

"Bullshit." The word surprised them both. "You could have thrown me under the bus back there. Claimed you didn't know about my past, positioned yourself as a victim of my deception. It would have been cleaner for you."

"Cleaner," Damien agreed. "But wrong."

"Since when do you care about right and wrong?"

"Since-" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "You're carrying a child, Ivy. Whatever else this arrangement is, I won't let a pregnant woman be destroyed by vultures. That's the line I won't cross."

It was the most human thing she'd heard him say. Ivy felt something shift in her chest, a dangerous softening toward this man who claimed to have no heart.

Margot cleared her throat. "Amanda Pierce is on the line. She wants to schedule an interview with both of you. A chance to tell your story properly."

Damien and Ivy exchanged glances. "Together?" Ivy asked.

"Together," Damien confirmed. He took the phone from Margot. "Ms. Pierce? Damien Blackwood. My fiancée and I will grant you one exclusive interview. Tomorrow, six p.m., at my office. One hour, no cameras, just you. Agreed?" He listened, then nodded. "Good. See you then."

He ended the call and handed the phone back to Margot. "Cancel everything on my schedule tomorrow after five. And get me everything on Reese Winters:financials, business dealings, personal life. I want to know every vulnerability he has."

"You're going after him?" Ivy asked.

"He came after you," Damien replied, his voice cold. "That makes him my problem. No one touches what's mine without consequences."

*What's mine.* The possessive words sent a shiver down Ivy's spine that she absolutely should not be feeling. This was fake. A transaction. Damien didn't actually think of her as his.

Except he'd defended her like she was. Threatened Reese like she mattered. Was looking at her now with an intensity that made her skin feel too tight.

"I should prepare for tomorrow," Ivy said, needing distance. "The interview."

"We'll prepare together," Damien said. "After dinner. We need our stories perfectly aligned."

Of course. Back to strategy. Back to the performance.

But as Ivy walked to her room to change, she couldn't shake the memory of Damien's hand covering hers in the car, his quiet assurance that she wasn't alone. It was dangerous to read meaning into calculated gestures. Dangerous to want them to be real.

She pressed her hand to her stomach, feeling the slight flutter of nausea that had become familiar. "Your father is complicated," she whispered to the baby. "And this is all going to be very, very messy."