The Night I Left Him, I Was Carrying His Heir

The next morning, the long dining table was laid with a breakfast fit for royalty. Fresh orange juice, croissants, smoked salmon, and a silver coffee pot steaming in the center.

Seraphina walked down the staircase in a simple white silk blouse and black trousers, looking like she'd slept just enough to be dangerous.

Julian was already there, at the head of the table, in a perfectly tailored navy suit, a physical copy of the Financial Times open in front of him. His plate was untouched. He was waiting.

She sat down at the opposite end, the thirty-foot stretch between them like a frozen strait. She reached for the coffee pot, movements still a little stiff.

Julian folded his paper with a crisp rustle. His pale blue eyes fixed on her.

"You'll accompany me to the Children's Foundation charity gala this afternoon."

"Oh." She took a bite of a croissant, chewed, swallowed, then looked up. "Sorry. I already have plans."

"What plans?"

"Horror movie with Chloe. And I'm thinking of googling 'husband returns after six months and breaks phone—should I file a police report.'"

His fingers tapped once against the mahogany table. "This isn't a request."

He slid a thin manila folder across the polished surface. It stopped a few feet from her plate. "Your father's firm is preparing for a new round of funding. It would be a shame if their primary investors suddenly pulled out."

Seraphina flipped it open, scanned half a page, and closed it. She pushed it back across the table. "Julian, my dad's little firm doesn't make enough in a year to cover your watch habit. You want to threaten me, at least come up with something new. This is your third time recycling this one."

Julian's eyebrow moved—almost in acknowledgment. He sounded genuinely curious when he asked: "What would you suggest, then?"

Seraphina leaned back, arms crossed, and considered it seriously. "That Monet in your study. If you pull funding from my dad, I'll buy a knockoff, swap them out, and go live on stream teaching people how to tell the difference."

She grinned.

Julian watched her for two full seconds. Then he unfolded his paper again. "Driver will be downstairs at two. Don't be late."

Seraphina picked up the coffee pot and refilled her cup, raising it toward him in a mock toast. "You talk, I'll not listen."

In the afternoon, Seraphina, completely ignoring Julian's request, stopped at a café on Madison Avenue. She ordered a latte—double sugar

"Mrs. Sinclair?"

The voice was saccharine and pointed. Seraphina looked up to find a blonde woman in a cream trench coat standing by her table, holding what was clearly a prop coffee cup.

Isabelle Beaumont. Socialite. Gossip column regular. And according to every tabloid, Julian Sinclair's true love.

Her coffee cup "accidentally" tipped.

Dark brown liquid splashed across Seraphina's white blouse. Isabelle gasped, fumbled for napkins, mouthing apologies while her eyes gleamed.

"Oh, how clumsy of me! Are you all right?"

Seraphina looked down at her sleeve, then back up. "Do you know how much this shirt costs?"

"I—"

"Thirty-seven hundred. Just bought it. Tags still on." Seraphina sighed. "Next time you want to spill coffee on me, give me a heads-up. I'll find you a cheaper target."

Isabelle's smile flickered, but she recovered fast.

"You must be Mrs. Sinclair?" she said, eyes wide and innocent. "Julian just got back. You must be exhausted. He spent the last six months in Europe dealing with something very personal for me. He's so thoughtful, isn't he?"

Seraphina nodded. "Yeah. Sounds like it. He handled your personal thing, and he handled three months of my credit card bills. By that division of labor, he's been pretty busy."

Isabelle's smile wavered. She changed tactics, placing a delicate hand on her stomach and lowering her voice just enough for nearby tables to hear: "We're both so eager to start a family. A child really makes a house a home, don't you think?"

Seraphina looked at her hand. Then back at her face. "So you're saying you're pregnant?"

Isabelle's eyes lit up with triumph—right before Seraphina continued.

"Then you should sit down right now."

"What?"

"Your weight's on your right foot, and you've got your left hand on your stomach—but that's your stomach, not your uterus." Seraphina took a sip of her latte. "If you actually were pregnant, that stance would mess with your pelvic stability. So either your anatomy knowledge is shockingly bad, or—"

She paused. Smiled.

"You're acting."

Isabelle's composure cracked. She stepped back, heel sliding on the floor—

Seraphina caught her by the trench coat belt before she could fall. "If you're going to stage a fall, at least commit. That move was sloppy. If you'd actually hit the ground, I'd feel bad. And I don't want to feel bad."

The café went quiet for two seconds.

Seraphina let go, patted Isabelle on the shoulder, and leaned in to murmur: "Next time, rehearse. You've got enough plot holes to open a fishing supply store."

She straightened up, grabbed her coffee, and walked out, steps light and unhurried.

Behind her, Isabelle's voice—low, shaking, already on the phone—drifted through the glass.

Seraphina didn't look back.