Chapter 5

Panic is a very effective travel agent.

By the time the sun crawled over the New York skyline the next morning, I had already packed two suitcases, drained my savings account into a mobile-friendly currency, and booked a one-way ticket to a village in Tuscany so remote it didn't even show up on G****e Street View.

I told Jade I was going on an "artistic retreat." I told my gallery assistant I was "sourcing inspiration from the Italian soil." What I didn't tell them was that I was running away from a crumpled CVS receipt and the look on Dominic Thorne’s face when he tucked it into his pocket.

The flight was a nightmare of recycled air and the smell of airplane omelets, which, as it turns out, is the ultimate biological weapon against a woman in her first trimester. I spent most of the eleven-hour journey locked in the tiny lavatory, whispering to my stomach that we were almost at the finish line.

We just need to get to the villa, Sera, I told myself, splashing cold water on my face. He’s a billionaire. He’s busy. He has companies to merge and people to fire. He won't chase a ghost across the Atlantic.

The villa was supposed to be my sanctuary. It was a centuries-old stone farmhouse perched on the edge of a vineyard, surrounded by olive trees and the kind of silence that usually only exists in libraries or outer space. I had rented it under my mother’s maiden name. I had used a private car service. I had done everything right.

The gravel crunched under the tires of the taxi as it pulled up the long, winding driveway. The air smelled like lavender and dust. It was perfect. It was safe.

"Grazie," I whispered to the driver, handing him a wad of Euros. I grabbed my suitcases and dragged them toward the heavy oak front door.

I reached into my bag for the key the rental agency had sent me, but as my hand brushed the handle, the door swung open with a soft, ominous creak.

My heart did a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. Maybe the cleaning crew had left it open? Maybe it was the Italian way of being welcoming?

I stepped into the cool, shadowed interior of the living room. The floors were terracotta, the ceilings were beamed with dark wood, and the fireplace was large enough to roast a small cow. It was exactly as the pictures described, except for one very prominent, very out-of-place detail.

There was a man sitting in the leather armchair by the window.

He wasn't wearing a tuxedo anymore. He was wearing a navy cashmere sweater with the sleeves pushed back, and his legs were crossed at the ankles. On the small side table next to him sat a glass of amber liquid and a tablet that was glowing with rows of data.

Dominic didn't even look up when I dropped my suitcase. The sound of it hitting the stone floor echoed like a gunshot.

"The flight from JFK was delayed forty minutes," Dominic said, his voice as calm as a summer lake. "I assume the headwind was particularly brutal today."

I felt the blood drain from my face so fast I had to grab the doorframe to keep from toppling over. "How? How are you here? How did you even find me?"

Dominic finally looked up. He didn't look angry. He didn't look like the man who had stalked out of my apartment in a frozen rage. He looked like a man who had just won a game he’d been playing for years. He looked... triumphant.

"You used your mother's maiden name, Sera. It was a nice touch. Very cinematic," he said, taking a slow sip of his scotch. "But you used the Thorne family’s preferred private jet charter for the leg from Rome to Florence. Did you think they wouldn't flag a Rossi on the manifest? You’re lucky I’m the one who saw the alert and not my father."

"You have no right," I found my voice, though it was shaking. "This is a private rental. You are trespassing. I am calling the local Carabinieri."

"Go ahead," he said, gesturing to the tablet on the table. "Though I suspect they’ll be confused when I show them the deed. I bought this vineyard three hours after your flight took off. Technically, you’re the one trespassing in my house."

I stumbled back, the sheer scale of his arrogance hitting me like a physical blow. "You bought... the whole vineyard? Just to do what, Dominic? To gloat? To tell me you’re better at hide-and-seek than I am?"

"I’m not here to gloat, Seraphina." He picked up the tablet and turned it toward me.

My breath hitched. It wasn't a spreadsheet. It was a digital copy of a medical file. My medical file. From the clinic I had visited privately four months ago for a check-up, and a supplemental note from this morning’s lab results that I hadn't even seen yet.

"I have 'people,' Sera. You know this. People who make sure I’m never surprised." He stood up, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the room. He walked toward me, and for the first time, I saw the fire behind the amber. "You were going to hide it from me. You were going to stay in this pile of rocks and raise a Thorne heir in secret."

"It’s my baby!" I yelled, the panic finally breaking through. "My body, my life, my choice! You didn't want the marriage, Dominic! You wanted the papers! You wanted the 'lapse in judgment' to be deleted from the record!"

"I changed my mind," he said, stopping just inches from me. He reached out, his hand hovering near my stomach before he dropped it to his side. "And speaking of papers... there’s been a slight clerical error."

"What are you talking about?"

Dominic reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a familiar-looking document. It was the divorce decree. But as he held it up, I saw the thick, red stamp across the front. VOID.

"My legal team realized that the Post-Nuptial Addendum you signed in such a hurry contained a very specific clause," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate level. "A clause that states the divorce is only finalized if no undisclosed marital assets are discovered within thirty days of signing."

"I don't have any undisclosed assets!" I cried. "I have a pink sofa and a failing gallery!"

Dominic’s eyes dropped to my belly. "You’re carrying the Thorne legacy, Seraphina. That is the most valuable asset I own. And since you didn't disclose it before the ink was dry... the divorce has been set aside. Legally, we are as married as the day we said 'I do.'"

The room started to spin. I reached for the wall, but Dominic was there, his strong arms wrapping around my waist to steady me. This time, I didn't have the strength to push him away.

"You can't do this," I whispered against his chest. "You can't just buy my life back."

"I can," he said, kissing the top of my head. "And I have. I’ve already had your things moved from that rental apartment back to the penthouse. We’re going to live here for the summer. The air is better for you. And when the baby is born, we’ll move back to the city."

I looked up at him, my eyes blurring with tears of rage and something else—something that felt terrifyingly like relief. "You’re a monster."

"I’m a father," he corrected, a small, dark smile playing on his lips. "And I’m a husband. You didn't think I'd let my son or daughter be born in a rental, did you, Sera? From now on, you don't go anywhere without me."

I looked at the door, then back at the man who had just dismantled my entire escape plan with a single phone call. I was trapped. I was pregnant. And I was still Mrs. Dominic Thorne.

"What just happened?" I whispered to the empty room.

Dominic just tightened his grip. "Life happened, Seraphina. Get used to it."