The Bizarre Bond: The CEO's Regret

Sophie sat alone in a private clinic on the Upper East Side. Around her, couples murmured, their hands linked.

She wasn't here for show. Her hand drifted to her stomach-flat, but not empty.

A door clicked open.

"Mrs. Carlisle-Vanderbilt?"

Sophie followed the nurse into a white room. The doctor held up a lab report.

"Congratulations. You're six weeks pregnant."

The words hit. Hard. One night. One month ago. Julian drunk, lonely, and for once-he didn't leave.

The doctor handed her a sonogram. Sophie stared at the blurry speck. She folded it and tucked it into her wallet. A small, impossible life.

Maybe this changes things. Maybe he'll want her.

She walked out of the room, a fragile hope flickering in her chest.

She turned the corner-and stopped.

Julian stood at the end of the corridor. His arms cradled a woman. Her stepsister. Zoe Miller. The one who'd left the day after their wedding.

Zoe clung to him, her ankle wrapped in bandages, her face buried in his chest. Julian murmured something low and soft-too soft for Sophie to hear, but she felt it in her bones.

The tenderness in his grip was a knife.

Sophie stumbled back into the shadow of a potted ficus. He walked right past her. His eyes never left Zoe.

He didn't see Sophie.

A doctor hurried out. "Get a look at her ankle," Julian commanded, urgency in his voice. "She twisted it dodging a cyclist."

Urgency he'd never once used for her.

Sophie remembered: Julian had an aversion to touch. A pathology. He never held anyone.

Except Zoe.

The Birkin slipped from her fingers. It hit the marble floor with a dull thud. No one looked.

Her shaking hand fumbled inside her wallet. She pulled out the sonogram. Stared at the tiny speck.

A tear traced down her cheek.

He could not know. Not now.

Not ever.

Sophie pressed herself deeper into the shadows. Her breath was ragged.

She should leave. But her feet wouldn't move.

Through a gap in the door, she watched Julian help Zoe onto a sofa. He arranged a pillow behind her back with a care that stole the air from Sophie's lungs.

"Julian," Zoe said, her voice fragile. "I was so scared. When I fell... I'm so glad you were there."

Her fingers brushed his sleeve. He didn't pull away.

"You're safe now," Julian murmured. "I won't let anything happen to you."

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. His fingers lingered.

Zoe leaned into his touch. "You've always taken care of me. Remember the treehouse? I was terrified of climbing down. You stayed with me for hours."

A faint smile touched Julian's lips. "I remember."

Zoe reached into her blouse and pulled out a thin silver chain. A small, tarnished locket. "I've kept it with me all these years."

Julian's gaze softened further. He recognized it.

Zoe's eyes drifted toward the crack in the door. Toward Sophie.

Their eyes met.

Zoe's mouth curled into a faint, triumphant smirk.

Sophie staggered back. Her pain was not an accident. It was the point.

She turned and fled.

She slid into the driver's seat of her car. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white.

She dialed Julian's private number. Once. Twice. Three times.

No answer.

On the fourth ring, a click. But not Julian's voice.

"Hello?" Zoe's voice, honeyed and breathless. "Sophie? Oh, I'm sorry-Julian can't come to the phone right now. He's... helping me with something."

Sophie's blood turned to ice. "Put him on."

"He's busy." A soft laugh. "You know how he gets. So attentive. He's been holding my hand for the last ten minutes. Said he missed me."

"Put. Him. On."

A pause. Then Julian's voice, distant and distracted: "Who is it?"

"Your wife," Zoe said, loud enough for Sophie to hear. "She sounds upset."

"I don't have time for this." Julian's voice was flat. "Tell her I'll call back."

The line went dead.

Sophie stared at her phone. He hadn't even bothered to speak to her. She threw the phone onto the passenger seat. It bounced and hit the floor.

A dry, ragged sob escaped her. Then she laughed-bitter, broken. She was carrying his child, and he couldn't spare her ten seconds.

At the Fifth Avenue mansion, Sophie walked through the grand foyer. A wave of nausea hit her. She stumbled rounding a corner, her shoulder brushing a tall vase. The vase wobbled. Sophie lost her balance and crashed onto the Persian rug.

A sharp pain shot through her palm. Her blood ran cold. The baby.

"Hey! Watch it!"

A woman in a cleaner's uniform stood a few feet away, holding a small boy's hand. She glared at Sophie. "What's wrong with you? You almost knocked over my son!"

Sophie tried to push herself up, but her arms trembled. "I'm sorry-I didn't see-"

"Didn't see? He's three feet tall! You rich people think you own the world." The woman yanked her son closer. "Are you drunk or something?"

"No, I-" Sophie's hand pressed against her stomach. Pain lanced through her. "Please, I need help-"

"Help?" The woman laughed, harsh and ugly. "You almost hurt my baby, and you want my help?" She tugged the boy's hand. "Come on, Marcus. Stay away from her."

The boy stared at Sophie with wide eyes. "Mommy, she's bleeding-"

"Not our problem." The woman dragged him away.

Sophie looked down at her palm. A thin line of red welled up from a cut. But the real fear was lower. Inside.

She forced herself to her knees, then to her feet. The room spun. She leaned against the wall, breathing in short, shallow gasps.

No one came. No one asked if she was okay.

She limped toward the stairs, one hand on the railing, the other covering her abdomen.

"Watch your child," she had said to the woman. But whose child was she watching now? Hers? Or the one Julian would never acknowledge?

She had to get out. For herself. And for the life growing inside her.

In the clinic, Zoe leaned closer to Julian. Her perfume-tuberose and vanilla-was cloying.

"Julian, thank you," she whispered. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

As the scent hit him, a violent wave of nausea surged up Julian's throat.

He recoiled, shoving her away. He shot to his feet and strode to the window, his hand clamped over his mouth, fighting the urge to retch. His face was pale.

Zoe stared, stunned.

"Quinn," Julian bit out, his back to the room. "Take Miss Miller home."

Without another glance, he stormed out of the clinic.

The nausea subsided the moment he stepped back into the mansion. He went straight to Sophie's suite. She was in a simple silk robe, her hair damp from the shower.

He didn't knock. He pushed the door open and tossed a manila folder onto her vanity. It landed with a sharp slap.

Sophie glanced at the cover. "Divorce Agreement."

Her heart stuttered, but her face remained calm. She had been expecting this.

"Sign it," Julian said. His voice was empty. "You'll get the penthouse on Fifth Avenue."

He expected tears. A scene. He got nothing. She picked up the document and began to read.

"Is it because Zoe is back?" she asked. A statement, not a question.

He clenched his jaw. "That's none of your concern. Sign the papers."

Then, she caught it. The faint, sweet scent of Zoe's perfume on his suit. Her stomach churned.

She couldn't hold it back. Pressing a hand to her mouth, she bolted for the bathroom. The sound of her heaving echoed in the silent room.

At the exact same moment, Julian was hit by another wave of nausea, more powerful than the last. He doubled over, his body convulsing with dry heaves. The color drained from his face. He stumbled back, bracing himself against the wall.

Sophie emerged, wiping her mouth, her face as white as a sheet. She saw him, bent over, looking just as sick as she felt.

He must be so disgusted by her that it was making him physically ill.

She walked to the vanity and picked up a pen.

"I'll sign," she said, her voice steady. "But I don't want your penthouse. I don't want anything. I just want this to be over."

Her child would not be financed by his guilt.

Julian straightened up, watching her. He watched her reach for the pen, calm and resolved. The nausea clawed at his throat again. He moved before he could think.

He lunged forward and snatched the agreement from her hand just as the pen touched the paper.

He ripped it in half.

Sophie stared, bewildered.

He fought down the lingering queasiness. "This compensation is insufficient," he growled. "It's an embarrassment to the Carlisle-Vanderbilt name. My lawyers will draft a new offer."

He turned and strode out, as abruptly as he'd arrived.

Sophie was left standing amidst the torn pieces of her freedom.

In his study, the nausea finally faded. Julian sank into his leather chair. None of it made sense. His eyes fell on a bowl of green apples on a side table. Sophie had been eating them constantly for the past week.

On impulse, he picked one up and took a bite.

The crisp, sour juice flooded his mouth.

The sickness vanished completely.

He stared at the apple in his hand. It didn't make sense. None of it made sense.