Chapter 5

I crawled under the fridge and grabbed Alexander's phone first. The screen was cracked — my fault — but the message was still readable.

"She's not the only one carrying secrets, Black. Ask her about the night of the masquerade. Ask her who else was in that coatroom."

My blood turned to ice water.

Alexander took the phone from my shaking hands. He read the message twice. Then he looked at me with an expression I couldn't read — not anger, not betrayal. Something worse.

Disappointment.

"There was someone else," he said. It wasn't a question.

"No. There was no one else. It was just you and me and a very ill-advised coatroom."

"Then why would someone send this?"

"I don't know!" My voice came out too loud. Too desperate. I hated the sound of it. "I was a virgin, Alexander. You knew that. You tested the sheets."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he handed me his phone.

"Read the sender's name."

I looked at the screen.

Marcus Vance.

My father.

The dead man who wasn't dead had just texted Alexander Black — my baby's father — to accuse me of lying.

"That doesn't make sense," I said slowly. "If he wants to use me to destroy you, why would he try to make you hate me?"

Alexander took the phone back. His fingers were steady now — the billionaire algorithm running again.

"Because he doesn't want me to hate you," he said quietly. "He wants me to doubt you. There's a difference."

---

I didn't understand.

I still didn't understand twenty minutes later, when we were sitting on my secondhand couch, side by side but not touching, both staring at our phones like they were bombs.

"Walk me through it," Alexander said. His voice was calm now. Professional. Like I was a witness and he was a prosecutor. "The night of the masquerade. What time did you arrive?"

"Nine. Maybe nine-thirty."

"Who did you speak to?"

"No one. I got a drink. I stood in the corner. I was miserable."

"Then what?"

I closed my eyes. Remembered the weight of the mask. The too-tight dress. The way the champagne tasted like regret.

"Then you walked up to me. You said my dress was wrinkled. I said your personality was wrinkled. And then —"

"Then we danced."

"Then we danced."

His jaw tightened. "Did anyone approach you before me? Anyone at all?"

I opened my eyes. Thought back.

The crowd. The masks. The sea of strangers pretending to be someone else.

"There was a woman," I said slowly. "By the bar. She bumped into me. Spilled my drink. Apologized. Helped me clean it up."

Alexander went very still. "What did she look like?"

"Blonde. Tall. Expensive dress. She was wearing a gold mask — feathers, I think. She smelled like roses."

"What did she say to you?"

My stomach turned.

"She said... 'You're exactly where you need to be, Isabella. Don't leave until midnight.'"

I hadn't thought about it since that night. I'd assumed it was nothing. A drunk stranger. A random comment.

Now I heard it differently.

"She knew my name," I whispered. "I wasn't wearing a name tag. My mask covered my face. She knew my name, Alexander."

He stood up so fast the couch shifted.

"Gold mask. Roses. Blonde." He was pacing now — long, angry strides across my tiny living room. "That's Elena. My father's second wife. My stepmother."

"Your stepmother was at the masquerade?"

"Everyone was at the masquerade. It was a charity event. My family sponsors it every year." He stopped pacing. Turned to face me. His eyes were wild now — the mask completely gone. "She knew you were there. She knew I'd be there. She arranged for us to meet."

"That's insane."

"Is it? You show up. I approach you — which I never do. We end up together. You get pregnant. With triplets. The only healthy heirs I'll ever have." His voice dropped to a whisper. "And now my stepmother — the woman who has hated me since I was twelve — is the reason you're standing in front of me."

The room spun.

I grabbed the arm of the couch.

"Are you saying this was a setup? That someone planned for me to get pregnant by you?"

"I'm saying my family has been playing chess while we've been playing checkers." He pulled out his phone again. Texted someone — three words, too fast for me to read. "And I'm saying we need to leave. Now."

"Leave? Leave where?"

"Somewhere safe. Somewhere no one knows about." He looked at me — really looked at me — and for the first time, I saw fear in his eyes. Not for himself. For me. "Your father texted me from Switzerland. My stepmother was at the masquerade. Someone else sent you to that party. Do you understand what that means?"

I understood.

I just didn't want to.

"It means we're both being played," I whispered.

"No." He grabbed my hand. His fingers were warm. Calloused. Shaking. "It means we're on the same side now. Whether we like it or not."

My phone buzzed.

Then his.

Then mine again.

We looked at each other.

"Don't answer it," he said.

"I wasn't going to."

My phone buzzed a fourth time. A text message — from an unknown number.

"Run, Isabella. He's not who you think he is."

I looked up at Alexander.

He looked down at the message.

And neither of us said a word.