Chapter 1: The Forged Signature
“Hospital.””
That was the only word my husband said when I vomited into a silver trash can on the morning we were supposed to sign our divorce papers.
Dorian Cross stood across the law office in a charcoal suit, one hand resting against the polished conference table, his face perfectly controlled.
I wiped my mouth with a tissue.
“I’m fine.””
His eyes narrowed.
“Alina.””
“It was carsickness.””
“The ride here was eleven minutes.””
“Traffic was bad.””
“There was no traffic.””
I hated that he knew I was lying.
Six months of silence had not erased the way he could read me.
Six months of sleeping in separate rooms.
Six months of conversations reduced to lawyers, assistants, and messages that began with Please review the attached document.
And now, after all that distance, he could still hear the tremor hiding underneath my voice.
I looked down at the divorce papers.
Our names sat side by side at the bottom of the final agreement.
Dorian Cross.
Alina Cross.
Soon, one of those names would no longer belong to the same marriage.
“We're in the middle of a divorce,” I said.
“Not anymore.””
My head snapped up.
“What?””
He turned toward the elevator.
“Bring the car around.””
One of the security men immediately reached for his phone.
I stood.
“Dorian.””
He looked at me.
“Hospital. Now.””
“You don't get to command me anymore.””
“You're shaking.””
“I’m angry.””
“You almost collapsed.””
“I’m getting divorced.””
His jaw tightened.
“You're going to the hospital.””
“And if I refuse?””
He stepped closer.
“I’ll carry you.””
I stared at him.
For half a second, the man in front of me wasn't the billionaire CEO who had spent years terrifying boardrooms.
He was the man who used to warm my side of the bed before I came home.
The man who once drove forty minutes through a snowstorm because I'd mentioned, casually, that I wanted strawberry pie.
The man I had loved enough to forgive things I should never have forgiven.
Then the memory disappeared.
I picked up my purse.
“I can walk.””
“Good.””
He moved aside.
“But you're still going.””
Twenty minutes later, I sat across from him in the back of his black SUV.
Rain streaked the windows.
Neither of us spoke.
The city slid past in gray reflections.
Finally, Dorian broke the silence.
“How long have you been sick?””
“I’m not sick.””
“Alina.””
I stared out the window.
“Two weeks.””
“Every morning?””
“Most mornings.””
His gaze shifted toward me.
Then lower.
Toward my stomach.
“No.””
His eyebrows pulled together.
“I didn't say anything.””
“You didn't have to.””
Silence again.
His phone rang.
He ignored it.
It rang a second time.
He ignored that too.
“You have a company,” I said bitterly.
“You can answer it.””
“I have people who can handle my company.””
“Apparently.””
His eyes came back to mine.
“What does that mean?””
“Nothing.””
“Alina.””
I laughed once.
It came out humorless.
“Six months ago, you stopped asking me questions.””
“I never stopped asking.””
“You stopped wanting answers.””
His expression hardened.
“I wanted the truth.””
“So did I.””
The SUV slowed outside the emergency entrance.
Dorian opened his door before the driver could.
I stepped out.
He reached for my elbow.
I pulled away.
“I can walk.””
“I know.””
“Then stop touching me.””
His hand fell.
“Fine.””
Inside, fluorescent lights burned above us.
A nurse took my information.
A technician drew blood.
Another nurse handed me a cup and asked for a urine sample.
Dorian waited outside the curtain.
He looked absurdly out of place.
Too expensive.
Too composed.
Too powerful.
And somehow, for the first time in months, completely helpless.
Twenty minutes later, Dr. Elaine Mercer returned.
She closed the door behind her.
I immediately noticed her expression.
“What is it?””
She glanced at Dorian.
Then at me.
“Your pregnancy test is positive.””
Everything inside me stopped.
The room became strangely quiet.
I looked at the doctor.
“I'm sorry?””
“You're pregnant.””
Dorian didn't move.
I stared at the floor.
Nine weeks.
Nine weeks.
The number repeated in my head.
Nine weeks ago, Dorian and I had still been living in the same house.
Nine weeks ago, I had believed my marriage could still be saved.
Then everything changed.
I looked toward him.
Dorian's face had gone pale.
“How far?”” I whispered.
“Approximately nine weeks.””
My fingers tightened around the edge of the hospital bed.
Nine weeks pregnant.
On the morning I was supposed to end my marriage.
Dr. Mercer cleared her throat.
“There’s something else.””
Dorian's eyes sharpened.
“What?””
She turned her tablet toward me.
“One of the medications listed in your medical history can affect ovulation.””
I frowned.
“What medication?””
She named it.
I stared at her.
“I've never taken fertility medication.””
Dorian stood.
“What did you just say?””
Dr. Mercer looked between us.
“She has a prescription in the system.””
“No,” I said.
She tapped the screen.
“Three months ago, you had a hormonal consultation.””
“I did not.””
“There’s a prescription attached to the consultation.””
“I've never seen that doctor.””
Dorian moved beside me.
“What medication was prescribed?””
“Letrozole.””
My stomach turned again.
“But I never took it.””
Dr. Mercer frowned.
“According to this record, you did.””
I shook my head.
“No.””
She scrolled.
“There’s also a signed consent form.””
She enlarged the document.
At the bottom was a signature.
ALINA CROSS.
My breath caught.
“That isn't mine.””
Dorian looked at me.
“You're sure?””
I turned toward him.
“Are you actually asking whether I know my own signature?””
His jaw tightened.
“No.””
Dr. Mercer zoomed in.
“There's a physician authorization attached.””
Dorian's voice changed.
“Whose?””
The doctor hesitated.
“Adrian Vale.””
Dorian went completely still.
I noticed it immediately.
“You know him.””
“Yes.””
“How?””
“He had access to the private medical network my family uses.””
“Why?””
“Because I trusted him.””
Dorian's face became unreadable.
Then he pulled out his phone.
“Noah.””
His chief of security answered immediately.
“Sir?””
“Find Adrian Vale.””
“Already on it.””
“Where is he?””
A pause.
“I'm checking.””
Dorian's eyes never left the tablet.
Minutes passed.
Then Noah called back.
Dorian answered.
“Yes?””
His expression changed.
“What do you mean, cleared?””
I sat straighter.
Dorian listened.
“When?””
Another pause.
“Last night.””
His voice dropped.
“His apartment?””
“Empty.””
“Office?””
“Also empty.””
“His phone?””
“Disconnected.””
Dorian ended the call.
I stared at him.
“What did he do?””
“I don't know.””
“That isn't good enough.””
“I know.””
My phone buzzed on the counter.
Unknown number.
I picked it up.
There was a photograph attached.
A woman stood outside my apartment building.
Dark hair.
Black coat.
Her face partially hidden beneath an umbrella.
I didn't recognize her.
Under the photograph were two messages.
*DON'T LET DORIAN TAKE YOU HOME.*
Then another appeared.
*THE BABY IS WHY I CAME BACK.*
My fingers went cold.
I slowly lifted my eyes toward my husband.
Dorian was already looking at the screen.
And for the first time that morning, I saw something in his eyes that frightened me more than anger.
Recognition.
“Dorian,” I whispered.
“Who is she?””
He didn't answer.
He simply reached for his phone.
Then the hospital room door opened.
A nurse stood there, breathless.
“Mrs. Cross?””
“Yes?””
“You need to come with me.””
“Why?””
She looked at Dorian.
“Someone just asked to see you.””
“Who?””
The nurse swallowed.
“She gave the name…”
May you like
She looked down at the clipboard.
“Adrian Vale.””
