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.