CHAPTER 2

JULIAN'S POV

The Chateau Beaumont has the best wine cellar in Manhattan. I swirl the 2015 Margaux in my glass, watching the legs slide down the crystal. Across from me, Vivienne Laurent laughs at something Harrison said, her hand delicate on the stem of her champagne flute.

She's stunning tonight. Platinum blonde swept into an elegant chignon, diamond earrings catching the candlelight. The kind of woman who belongs in rooms like this old money, classical beauty, effortless grace.

Everything about her whispers breeding, legacy, future.

My phone vibrates against the table. I glance down.

Esme. Again.

"Problem?" Vivienne asks, one perfectly arched brow rising.

"Nothing important." I silence the phone and return my attention to the table. "You were saying about the merger?"

My mother leans forward, her eyes sharp. "Isn't that Esmeralda? Shouldn't you take it?"

"She's fine." I take a sip of wine. "Just... pregnancy hormones. She gets anxious."

Vivienne's expression flickers before she recovers. "How far along is she now?"

"Sixteen weeks." The words feel wrong in my mouth, but I push past it. "Look, can we discuss the Laurent portfolio? I'd like to finalize terms tonight."

My phone lights up again. Another call.

I should answer. Some part of me knows I should answer. But Vivienne is here, and Mother, and Harrison brokering the investment that will finally put me in Damien Hale's league.

I let it ring out.

"As I was saying," Vivienne continues smoothly, "our family is looking for strategic partnerships that align with our values. Your company's growth trajectory is impressive, Julian."

The way she says my name warm, appreciative sends a pleasant thrill through me. When was the last time Esmeralda looked at me like that? Like I was impressive instead of insufficient?

My phone buzzes. A text this time.

I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't. But my thumb moves of its own accord.

*Please. I need you. Something's wrong with the baby.*

The words blur. I read them twice.

Something's wrong with the baby.

"Julian?" Mother's voice cuts through the roaring in my ears. "You've gone pale."

I look up at the three faces watching me. The private dining room suddenly feels too small.

"Excuse me a moment." I push back from the table.

In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face. My reflection stares back golden hair perfectly styled, sharp jawline, Tom Ford suit. I look like a man in control.

So why are my hands shaking?

I pull out my phone. The text glows accusingly. Something's wrong with the baby.Sent twenty minutes ago.

I should call her. Should leave right now.

But Vivienne is out there. And this deal. This crucial, empire-building deal.

I type: *Can't talk now. Important meeting. Will call later.*

Delete it. Try again: *Are you okay? Where are you?*

But I don't send it either, because the answer might require me to leave.

I straighten my tie and walk back to the dining room.

"Everything alright?" Vivienne asks as I retake my seat.

"Fine. Just fine." I reach for my wine glass. "Now, about those terms..."

We talk for two more hours. Vivienne is sharp sharper than I expected. She understands portfolio management, asks intelligent questions. Mother watches us both with barely concealed satisfaction.

At one point, Vivienne's hand brushes mine as we both reach for the contract. She doesn't pull away immediately.

Neither do I.

"I think we'll work well together," she murmurs.

"I think so too."

It's after eleven when we finally leave. Mother kisses my cheek, whispers, "She's perfect for you." Vivienne lingers, her perfume expensive and subtle.

"Thank you for dinner, Julian. I'm excited about our partnership."

Partnership. The word could mean so many things.

I stand on the sidewalk after they leave, the October air cold against my flushed face. My phone weighs heavy in my pocket.

I should check it.

Instead, I get in my car and tell the driver to take me to the office.

It's not until I'm sitting at my desk, staring at my computer screen, that I finally pull out my phone.

Seventeen missed calls now. And one voicemail.

I press play.

"Julian, it's me." Esmeralda's voice is small, frightened. Background noise medical equipment, hurried voices. "I'm at Mount Sinai. They're taking me into surgery. There's bleeding and they can't find the heartbeat and I'm so scared—" Her voice breaks. "Please come. Please. I need you. I can't do this alone. Please"

The message cuts off. Timestamp: 4:52 PM.

It's now 11:47 PM.

For a long moment, I just sit there, phone pressed to my ear even though the message has ended.

They can't find the heartbeat.

I should feel something. Grief. Fear. The crushing weight of loss.

But all I feel is a strange numbness, like I'm watching someone else's life through frosted glass.

The baby. Our baby. Gone.

Except it doesn't feel real. None of this feels real. The pregnancy never felt real, if I'm honest. From the moment Esmeralda told me, all I could think about was complications. How it would tie me down. How Damien Hale was expanding into Southeast Asia while I was dealing with midnight cravings.

I dial the hospital. A nurse answers, transfers me.

"Esmeralda Voss's room, please."

"Are you family?"

"I'm her husband."

A pause. "Your wife is sleeping. The surgery was successful, but she experienced significant blood loss. We'll keep her overnight for observation."

"What about the baby?"

Longer pause. "I'm sorry, Mr. Voss. The fetus didn't survive. These things... sometimes they just happen."

These things just happen. The same thing I said to Esmeralda earlier.

The memory makes my stomach turn.

"Is she—will she be okay?"

"Physically, yes. Emotionally, these situations take longer to recover from. Visiting hours resume at seven AM."

I thank her and hang up.

I should go to the hospital. Right now.

But I don't move.

Instead, I open my laptop and pull up the Laurent portfolio. Numbers scroll across the screen projections, assets, opportunities.

My phone buzzes. Vivienne: *Thank you again for tonight. I have a good feeling about our future together.*

Our future together.

I read it twice, then set the phone down carefully.

Tomorrow. I'll go to the hospital tomorrow. Say the right things. Play the grieving husband.

The truth sits in my chest like a weight: I don't want to be married to Esmeralda anymore. I don't want the domestic bliss, the babies, the slow descent into suburban mediocrity.

I want what Vivienne represents: polish, connections, a wife who enhances my position.

But I'm not ready to admit that yet. Not even to myself.

I look at my phone one more time at Esmeralda's forty-three missed calls, at her desperate voicemail.

Then I put it in my desk drawer, close it, and get back to work.

Tomorrow will be soon enough for guilt.

Tonight, I have an empire to build.