Chapter 2_Thirty Days

The white corner was still sticking out of her pocket.

Isabella had seen it. Wren was sure. The woman's eyes were sharp now, like a cat that had just heard a mouse.

*Think. Fast.*

Wren slid her hand into her pocket. She did not pull out the stick. She pulled out the white handkerchief wrapped around it, then pressed the cloth to her mouth like a sick woman would. The test stayed buried deep inside the folds.

"Sorry," she said. "I was sick in the bathroom. Would you like to look?"

She held the cloth out toward Isabella's face.

Isabella jumped back. "No! Please. That's disgusting."

"Then you can stop staring at my pocket."

Isabella's cheeks turned pink. Adrian looked from one woman to the other, his frown deepening.

"You're sick?" he asked.

"It's nothing. The smell of the roast."

"You cooked that roast for me a hundred times. You love the smell."

*So he did notice something,* Wren thought. *Just never the right things.*

"People change," she said, and walked past him back to the dining room.

The room felt colder than before. A gray-haired man in a black suit now stood by the table, holding a leather folder. Wren remembered him from the novel she had read. Mr. Grant, the Vance family lawyer. He bowed his head slightly.

"Mrs. Vance."

"Mr. Grant."

She sat down and picked up the pen. The papers waited in front of her, with Adrian's bold signature already at the bottom.

*One name. One line. And I'm free.*

"Mr. Vance," Mr. Grant said carefully. "Forgive me, but before Mrs. Vance signs, I must remind you of your grandfather's will."

"Not now, Grant."

"It must be now, sir." The old man did not move. "If the divorce is signed before the Anniversary Gala, the chairman's seat does not pass to you. The will says the head of the family must stand beside his wife on that night."

The room went completely silent.

Isabella's smile cracked. "Adrian? What is he talking about?"

"A formality," Adrian said, without looking at her.

"A formality that costs you Vance Holdings," Mr. Grant said quietly.

Isabella's red lips opened, then closed. For the first time that evening, she had nothing sweet to say.

Wren put the pen down.

*He needs me.*

The thought was strange and warm, like finding a coin in an old coat. The man who had treated her like furniture for three years needed her to stand beside him, for one night, in front of everyone.

*Not out of love. Out of greed. But a need is a need.*

"How long until the gala?" she asked.

"Thirty days," said Mr. Grant.

"Then the divorce can wait thirty days."

Adrian's eyes snapped to her face. "You would stay?"

"For a price."

"I knew it," Isabella said sharply. "Of course she wants money."

Wren turned to her and spoke gently. "I'm not asking for money. I'm asking for three things."

Adrian crossed his arms. "Go on."

"One. My own room. Not the master bedroom. A room with a door that I can lock."

Something flickered across his face. She couldn't tell what.

"Two. My own time. I come and go as I like, and nobody asks where I've been."

"And three?"

"My bank card stays open until the divorce is final."

Isabella gave a small, ugly laugh. "That's all? Three years as his wife, and that's all she asks for?"

But Adrian did not laugh. He was studying Wren as if she were a puzzle with pieces missing.

"The old Celeste," he said slowly, "never asked me for anything."

"The old Celeste is tired," Wren said.

It was the truest thing she had said all night.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he looked at Mr. Grant. "Write it down. The divorce will be signed on the night of the gala, after the ceremony. Until then, she gets what she asked for."

"As you wish, sir."

Mr. Grant wrote on a clean page. Adrian signed first. Wren signed second, and her hand did not shake.

Not once.

*Thirty days,* she thought. *Thirty days to get out alive, with money, and with my baby.*

Adrian turned to leave. At the door, he stopped, his back to her.

"The guest room at the end of the east hall," he said. "It has a lock."

He walked out without another word.

Isabella lingered behind. She waited until the men had gone, then walked past Wren's chair slowly. She leaned down, her perfume heavy and sweet, her lips close to Wren's ear.

"I don't know what game you're playing, Celeste. But whatever you're hiding, I will find it."

Wren did not flinch. She looked up with a calm little smile.

"I hope you enjoy looking."

Isabella's face froze. Then she straightened and left, heels clicking hard on the marble.

Only when the room was empty did Wren's legs begin to shake.

---

The guest room was small, plain, and perfect.

Mrs. Carter was already inside, making the bed with quick, worried hands. When she saw Wren, her eyes went soft.

"Madam, I heard the voices. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Carter." Wren closed the door and turned the lock. The little click sounded like freedom. "Better than fine."

"You look pale."

"Maybe I am. Do you know a good doctor? One who won't talk?"

Mrs. Carter studied her face. Then she looked at the handkerchief still clutched in Wren's hand, and something quiet passed over her old, kind eyes.

"Dr. Lin," she said gently. "He has served this family for thirty years. And he keeps secrets better than anyone."

"Thank you." Wren's voice cracked a little. "And Mrs. Carter? Please say nothing to anyone."

"Madam." The old woman patted her hand. "I have watched you cry alone in that big bedroom for three years. I would never tell them anything."

She left. Wren sank onto the bed.

Slowly, she unwrapped the handkerchief and looked at the two pink lines again. Then she hid the test at the bottom of her suitcase, under her winter clothes.

A small golden card lay on the nightstand where the maid had left Adrian's mail. She picked it up without thinking. Black letters on thick cream paper.

*THE VANCE ANNIVERSARY GALA.*

*Five hundred guests. Grand Ballroom, Vance Tower.*

She read the date, and her breath stopped.

She knew that date.

She had read it in the novel, in the night before she woke up here. It was the night Celeste was dragged into the middle of the ballroom, in front of five hundred people. The night the family stripped her of her home, her money, and her name.

The night her whole life ended.

Wren held the card in both hands and looked at the date again, as if it might change.

It didn't.

*Thirty days.*

She pressed her other hand to her stomach, where something small and secret was already beating.

*That's not enough time to be ready. But I'll have to make it be.*