Chapter 3

Clara’s POV

"Where's Julian?" I looked around but couldn't see him through all the people.

"Talking to investors probably. You know how he is at these things."

I did know. Work always came first. The company. The image. Everything else was secondary.

Including me.

Maya squeezed my hand. "How are you really doing? Patricia said there were complications."

"The baby's not growing enough." The words came out flat. "They want me on bed rest."

"Clara..."

"It's fine." I pulled my hand away, smoothing down the silk dress that wouldn't stop pulling. "Everything's fine."

It wasn't fine. Nothing was fine. But what else could I say? That I was trapped? That I was terrified? That every day I felt more like a prisoner in my own life?

The NDA I'd signed made sure I couldn't say any of that. Not to Maya. Not to anyone.

"I need some air," I said, standing up too fast. The room tilted slightly. I grabbed the back of the chair to steady myself.

"Let me come with you."

"No. I just... I need a minute."

I walked toward the terrace doors before she could argue. The ballroom felt too hot, too crowded. Too many eyes watching, judging, finding me lacking.

The terrace was empty. Cold November air hit my face and I breathed it in deep. The city stretched out below, millions of lights in the darkness. Somewhere down there were people living normal lives. People who didn't have to smile for cameras or pretend their marriages weren't disasters.

The baby finally moved again. After being terrifyingly still all day, her sudden, frantic kicks felt like a warning. Running out of room. Running out of time.

"There you are."

I turned. Vivian Vance stood in the doorway, backlit by the ballroom lights. She wore a red gown that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Her hair was perfect. Her makeup was perfect. Everything about her was perfect.

"I've been looking for you," she said, stepping onto the terrace. The door closed behind her, cutting off the noise from inside. "We should talk."

My heart started beating faster. "About what?"

"About Julian." She moved closer, her heels clicking on the stone. "About this situation."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Please." She laughed, but it wasn't a kind sound. "Don't insult both of us by pretending. I know about the marriage. I know about the baby. I know everything."

"I know you know," I said, my voice tight. "I heard you talking to him."

"After the baby comes, you'll sign the papers and leave," Vivian continued. Her voice was matter-of-fact, like she was discussing a business transaction. "Eleanor's already drawn up the final settlement. Very generous, apparently. You should be grateful."

"Grateful," I repeated. The word tasted bitter.

"Most women would be. A few million dollars for months of work? That's not a bad deal."

I stared at her. At this woman who thought my daughter was a business transaction. Who thought I should be grateful for being paid to disappear.

"She's not work," I said quietly. "She's my child."

She looked me up and down, taking in the ill-fitting dress, the swollen ankles, the exhaustion I couldn't hide. "You're just the incubator."

Something inside me cracked. Not broke. Just cracked. Like ice starting to give way.

“Julian and I are preparing for our future once you're out of the picture.”

She walked past me toward the door. I watched her hand reach for the handle.

"He doesn't love you," I said.

She paused. Turned back. "Excuse me?"

"Julian. He doesn't love you. He doesn't love anyone. Not you. Not me. Not even the baby." The words poured out before I could stop them. "You think you're different? Special? You're not. You're just useful. Just like me."

Vivian's expression didn't change. "The difference is, I know what I'm getting into. I'm not naive enough to expect love from a man like Julian Sinclair. I want the power, the status, the empire we'll build together. You wanted a fairy tale. That's why you're miserable and I'm not."

She opened the door. Music and laughter spilled out.

"Enjoy the gala, Clara. It's probably your last one."

The door closed. I stood there alone on the terrace, shaking. Not from cold. From rage. From fear. From the horrible certainty that she was right.

I was temporary. Disposable. The incubator.

I turned back to the railing and looked out at the city. My vision blurred. I blinked hard, trying to clear it, but the tears came anyway. Silent tears that I couldn't stop.

My phone buzzed in my clutch. I pulled it out with shaking hands.

Unknown number again.

Leave now. Car waiting on 58th Street. Black sedan. Trust me.

I stared at the message. My heart was pounding. This was crazy. I didn't know who was sending these messages. It could be anyone. Could be dangerous.

But staying here felt more dangerous.

I looked back at the ballroom through the glass doors. I could see Julian now, surrounded by men in tuxedos. Vivian had joined the group. She was laughing at something someone said, her hand resting on Julian's arm.

He didn't pull away.

The baby kicked hard. Like she was trying to tell me something. Like she knew we needed to get out.

I put my phone back in the clutch and walked toward the terrace exit. Not the ballroom. The service elevator that led down to the street.

My feet hurt in the stupid heels. My dress pulled tight with every step. But I kept moving.

Down the stairs. Through the service entrance. Out onto 58th Street where the cold air hit me like a wall.

And there it was. A black sedan, engine running.

The back door opened.

I caught sight of the driver, who was wearing a black hat. I recognized him as Leo’s personal driver, though I hadn’t contacted him for a long time.

Leo was a wealthy heir in the city. We were close back in school, but because of that damn Sinclair family agreement, I had to cut ties with all my close friends.

Including him. Never expected that he’s been helping me in secret all along.

The door closed behind me and we pulled into traffic. I looked back once and saw the Plaza getting smaller in the distance. Saw all those lights, all those people, all that perfection I'd never belonged to.

"Where are we going?" I asked the driver.

He didn't answer. Just kept driving. Away from the gala. Away from Julian. Away from everything.

My phone buzzed again.

You're safe now. I promise.

I put my hand on my belly and felt my daughter move. Strong kicks now. Like she approved.

Like she knew this was the right choice.

I watched the brownstone's warm windows glow against the Brooklyn night as exhaustion finally dragged me under, but even as sleep claimed me, a small voice whispered in the darkness of my mind, a voice that sounded less like defeat and more like the beginning of defiance.

I would have to face whatever new crisis the Sinclairs had engineered in my absence.

The baby kicked once more, as if reminding me that the clock was already running out.