Chapter 2

2.

I had been pregnant with Julian’s child once before.

It was in New York, six years into our arrangement.

A tiny life, connected to me by blood. I remember seeing those two lines on the test and, for the first time, feeling like my life had meaning.

I was seventeen when I left my small town in the Midwest to pay off my father's gambling debts from Las Vegas. I came to New York and became a bottle service girl in the Meatpacking District―the most basic job. It was a world of glamour and excess, but I had no family, no real friends.

I met Julian at a private party for Goldman Sachs. I was twenty, just starting night classes at NYU. I worked at the club during the day, went to class at night, and sometimes took on extra jobs.

Julian was leading a major financing deal at the time. He needed a presentable companion for various business events―someone to deflect drinks for him, someone to give him a perfect "out" during long conversations.

I was the one he chose.

The arrangement was straightforward. Fifty thousand dollars a month, and he would pay off the two hundred thousand dollars my father owed. For me, at that time, it was a lifeline.

That first time, I hid the pregnancy from him, wanting to keep the baby.

But then, at a private party in the Hamptons, I had to drink way too much whiskey to charm a difficult client for him. I didn't want to, but I wasn't smart enough back then to know how to refuse gracefully. I ended up in the bathroom, throwing up multiple times, my face pale.

When I came out, a VP’s girlfriend was touching up her makeup. She looked at my pale face and joked, "God, are you pregnant?"

That's when I saw Julian's expression shift. His brow furrowed, and his sharp eyes scanned my stomach. Cold. Calculating.

He was looking at me like an unexpected liability that could screw up the ROI of his big merger.

He was a meticulous businessman, pathologically obsessed with his plans. This surprise crossed every one of his lines. Worse, I had hidden it from him.

That was the first time he was truly angry with me.

When we returned to his penthouse in Manhattan, his tone was arctic.

"You have one night to reflect," he said, not scolding, but stating a fact. "If you still don't understand your place, then get out."

It snowed in New York that night, too. I stood outside, my hand on my barely-there bump, staring at the bare branches of Central Park.

I thought maybe this was for the best.

The next morning, I didn't leave. I used the code he’d given me to get into the apartment, knelt before him, and told him I would handle it.

"The doctor said my body isn't in great shape after years of drinking for work. The procedure might cause permanent damage,"

I said, looking into his eyes, hoping to see a hint of softness.

"He suggested it might be difficult for me to get pregnant again."

I waited for him to say something. Maybe a "Then keep it." Or "I'll go with you."

He just stubbed out his cigar. "What does that have to do with me?"

In his circle, a child out of wedlock wasn't a big deal. His Yale buddies even half-joked about it. "Just raise it in Switzerland or France. You're over thirty, and she's been the only one for years. A kid's not a bad thing."

Julian didn’t say a word.

But later, after a few drinks, someone drunkenly asked, "Julian, be honest―you've kept her around for this long. You can't tell me you don't have some real feelings for her?"

Another chimed in, "Isn't she just a stand-in for your old flame? The girl who went to Paris?"

Julian shot him a cold glance. "It has nothing to do with her."

Then someone asked about me. He took a sip of whiskey, indifferent.

"Her? She’s easy on the eyes. And she listens. Just keeping her around for a few years."

A girl from the bottom could only ever be a mistress. Never the lady of the Sterling house.

In the end, I went through with the procedure. I didn't cry.

But there were complications. I hemorrhaged and spent over two weeks in the ICU.

He actually canceled a board meeting to see me, a rare occurrence.

"Elena, I will not marry you," he said, standing there in a black trench coat, his eyes cold and dark. "I can only have legitimate heirs. My marriage is not a whim. You know that."

I pressed my lips together and managed a small laugh. "I know."

I had always known. From the very first day.

That was what he liked most about me―I was sensible, obedient, and always knew my place.

Snow fell outside, the wind hitting the floor-to-ceiling windows.

From seventeen to twenty-seven. This was the tenth snow I’d watched in New York.

Perhaps because my apology was sincere enough, he let it go.

The private room was warm, and the coldness in his eyes gradually softened. He picked up an apple and began to peel it.

"Liam has picked out some bags and jewelry for you on Fifth Avenue. They'll be delivered soon."

I quietly watched the apple peel fall in a continuous spiral. My eyes burned, but I held back the tears.

His eyelashes were still damp with melted snow. His expression was serious, his movements precise.

"You won't be with me forever anyway," he said. "When I get married, I'll give you a sum of money. You can live your own life."

He held a slice of apple to my lips, his voice unusually soft. "Elena, just be good. I'll take care of you, okay?"