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Not in Alester Chandler’s house.

Not with Petra standing fifteen feet away with her tablet and her silent judgments.

D sees me. His expression doesn’t change much. Maybe not at all to anyone else. But I see the pause. The brief, contained break in whatever he expected when he came through that door. His eyes move over my face.

My chest feels too tight.

What is he doing here?

How does he know Alester?

Does he know who I am?

Does he know what I’m doing here?

No. He can’t.

I never told him.

The door opens again, and this time Alester walks in.

He is lean, gray-haired, immaculately dressed, every line of him expensive and controlled. He looks from me to the man standing several feet away, and nothing in his face suggests anything is unusual.

“Ah, Margaret,” Alester says. “You’re here.”

Margaret.

I hate that.

I hate that this is the moment I learn how my full name sounds in his mouth.

“Yes,” I manage.

D is still standing there.

Alester crosses the room with one hand slightly extended, not for a handshake, more like he’s acknowledging that an event has occurred exactly on schedule.

“We got the result,” he says.

My pulse thuds once.

Alester looks at me, calm as a signed document.

“Congratulations,” he says. “You’re pregnant.”

Chapter Eight

DALTON

“Congratulations, Maggie,” Alester says. “You’re pregnant.”

For a moment, I don’t understand the sentence.

I understand every word. I understand Alester’s voice, even and controlled, carrying across the room as if he’s announcing a successful transfer of funds. I understand the setting: his house, his fireplace, his assistant standing near the edge of the room with her tablet held against her body like a shield.

But I don’t understand Maggie being here. I don’t understand her standing in Alester Chandler’s front room with her face gone pale and her hand gripping the strap of her bag.

I don’t understand the word pregnant attached to her.