Chapter Six

The iron gates of the Wolfe Blackwood Estate groaned as they swung shut behind us, a sound like a prison cell locking into place. Upstate New York was a different world—cold, silent, and suffocatingly private. The manor stood like a gothic sentinel against the jagged treeline, miles away from the prying eyes of the paparazzi.

"You’re shaking," Ethan said. He hadn't looked at me since we left the city, his hands gripped tight on the steering wheel of the black SUV.

"I’m freezing," I lied, pulling my coat tighter around my waist. The truth was, the nausea was back, and the sheer proximity of the man beside me felt like an electrical current.

"The house is pre-heated," he said, his voice clipped. "And the medical staff arrived an hour ago. They’re discreet. They’ve been on the Wolfe payroll since before my father was born."

"I don't want your doctors, Ethan. I don't want anything from you."

He slammed on the brakes in the middle of the gravel driveway, the tires spitting stones. He turned to me, his eyes burning with a terrifying mix of fury and something that looked suspiciously like grief. "You were going to let Julian believe it was his. You were going to let my brother raise my child while I watched from the sidelines."

"You signed the papers, Ethan! You threw me away!" I shouted back, the dam finally breaking. "You didn't want a wife, you didn't want a family—you wanted a ghost who stayed in the attic until you needed to show her off. Why do you care now?"

"Because it’s mine!" he roared, his voice echoing in the cabin. He leaned in, his face inches from mine. "And because the moment you walked onto that runway in Paris, I realized I didn't just lose a wife. I lost the only person in this world who actually knew me."

The interior of Blackwood was a museum of our shared misery. Every portrait on the wall, every Persian rug, reminded me of the weekends we spent here pretending to be a happy couple for Eleanor.

Ethan led me to the library, where a fire was already roaring. On the table sat a single glass of milk and a plate of plain crackers. My stomach flipped. He knew. He remembered the only thing I could keep down during my flu bouts years ago.

"Sit," he commanded, though the edge had left his voice.

I sat, not because he told me to, but because my legs felt like water. "What is the plan, Ethan? You keep me here for ninety days? You force me to be Mrs. Wolfe again? Julian will come for me."

"Julian is a romantic. He’ll wait for a phone call that isn't coming," Ethan said, pacing the room. "And as for the plan... you wanted power, Grace. You wanted the empire. I’m giving it to you. But in exchange, this child stays a Wolfe. No scandals. No 'Sterling' pseudonyms. They will be the heir to everything."

"And what about me?" I whispered. "Am I just the vessel for your heir? Again?"

Ethan stopped pacing. He walked over and knelt in front of my chair. It was a position of total uncharacteristic vulnerability. He reached out, his hand trembling as he placed it—not on my hand—but flat against my stomach.

The air left the room. My skin burned through the fabric of my dress.

"You are the CEO of Sterling International," he murmured, his gaze fixed on where his hand met my body. "You are the woman who brought me to my knees in front of the entire world. You are many things, Grace... but you were never just a vessel."

He looked up, and for the first time in seven years, I saw tears in Ethan Wolfe’s eyes. "I’m not holding you hostage for the baby. I’m holding you hostage because I don't know how to breathe in a world where you belong to Julian."

For a heartbeat, the old Grace wanted to reach out and touch his hair. The old Grace wanted to believe him. But the new Grace remembered the anniversary dinner. She remembered the two years of silence.

I pulled away, standing up and putting the chair between us. "Your ninety days start tonight, Ethan. But don't confuse my presence with your victory. I’m here for the company. And the moment those ninety days are up, I’m taking my child and I’m leaving."

I retreated to the guest wing, locking the door behind me. I needed to call Silas. I needed a way out of this "medical wing" trap.

I searched my bag for my phone. It wasn't there.

I checked my coat pockets. Nothing.

A cold dread washed over me. I ran to the door and turned the handle.

It didn't budge.

"Ethan!" I screamed, banging on the heavy oak. "Open this door! You can't do this!"

From the other side, his voice came through, low and steady, devoid of the emotion he had shown in the library.

"I told you, Grace. No press. No Julian. Your phone is in the safe. The house is shielded. We’re going to be a family for the next three months, whether you like it or not."

I slumped against the door, my heart racing. Then, a soft click came from the bedside table.

It was a small, hidden intercom—one I hadn't noticed before. But it wasn't Ethan’s voice that came through. It was a woman’s voice, raspy and weak, yet unmistakably familiar.

"Grace? Is that you, dear? Don't be frightened. I told Silas you'd come eventually."

My blood turned to ice. It was a voice I had mourned for two years.

"Grandmother?" I gasped. "Eleanor? You're... you're dead."

"Not dead, darling," the voice crackled through the speaker. "Just waiting. Now, listen closely. Ethan doesn't know I'm in the basement wing. And he certainly doesn't know what I've done to the brakes on that SUV."