CHAPTER SIX: "167 BPM"

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[SFX: PENTHOUSE. SILENCE. THEN A KEYPAD BEEP. 7:12 PM.]

I didn’t hear the door unlock. I felt it.

Some shift in the air. In the weight of the penthouse. In the cage.

Three taps. Pause. Two taps. Marcos’s code.

Dr. Levinson walked in like he owned the place. Because Adrian owned _him_. Silver hair, Italian suit, leather medical bag that probably cost more than my car. If I had a car.

“Ms. Beth.” He didn’t ask. He _stated_. Like my name was a diagnosis. “I’m Dr. Gregory Levinson. Mr. Knight retains me for all sensitive family matters.”

Family. Right. I was family now. Property with a uterus.

“Where is he?” My voice was hoarse. From screaming or from not screaming for three hours. I couldn’t tell. Feet still elevated on the couch pillow Adrian shoved under me. Like I was a sick dog.

“Mr. Knight is containing the Valeria situation.” Levinson snapped on gloves. _Snap_. _Snap_. The sound made me flinch. “She’s leaked your name to Page Six. They’re running ‘Knight’s Baby Mama: Waitress From Queens’ in twenty minutes.”

My stomach rolled. Not morning sickness. _Fear_ sickness.

“She has the ultrasound,” Levinson continued, calm as a weather report. “From your clinic in Queens. She’s claiming you stole it. That you’re extorting him.”

The room tilted. My clinic. My file. HIPAA meant nothing when you were up against $40 billion.

“Can he do this?” I whispered. “Keep me here? Legally?”

Levinson pulled out a blood pressure cuff. His eyes never left his work. “Mr. Knight owns this building. He owns the NYPD precinct’s pension fund. He owns three appellate judges.” He strapped the cuff on. Too tight. Cutting off circulation. “The question you should ask is: can you survive out there, Ms. Beth? With Valeria’s fans and the press and every gold-digger in Manhattan hunting you?”

120 over 85. He frowned. Wrote it down on an iPad. “Elevated. Stress. Bad for the baby.”

Always for the baby. Never for me.

“Undress from the waist down,” he said. “I need to confirm gestational age and viability. And Mr. Knight requires visual confirmation.”

I went cold. “What?”

“Live feed.” Levinson nodded to the corner. Red light. Camera. “Security protocol for the heir. No recording. Mr. Knight is watching from his office.”

He was watching. Of course he was.

I wanted to vomit. I wanted to run. I wanted to go back six weeks and never walk into that bar.

Instead I lay back and stared at the crystal chandelier. 20 feet up. Worth more than my life.

Marcos stood by the door. Facing away. “Medically trained,” Levinson had said. Didn’t make it better.

[SFX: ULTRASOUND GEL. FREEZING. THEN A SOUND.]

_Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh._

Fast. Too fast to be mine. Frantic. Desperate. _Alive_.

“Heartbeat,” Levinson said. Professional. Bored. “167 beats per minute. Strong. Gestational age: six weeks, five days.”

He turned the screen.

A blob. A smudge. A flickering white dot in a sea of black.

“Congratulations,” Levinson said.

Not to me.

To the camera. To _him_.

[SFX: DOOR SLAMMING OPEN. FOOTSTEPS.]

Adrian didn’t knock. Didn’t wait. He was just _there_.

Suit jacket gone. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. Tie ripped off. Veins in his forearms standing out like he’d been clenching his fists for hours.

He didn’t look at me.

He looked at the screen. At 167 BPM. At the flicker.

His jaw did that thing. That tick. Once. Hard enough I heard his teeth.

Then he looked at me.

And for three seconds, Adrian Knight wasn’t a CEO. Wasn’t a billionaire. Wasn’t my captor.

He was a man looking at his heart outside his body.

“He’s alive,” Adrian said. Voice scraped raw.

Not _it_. Not _the fetus_. _He_.

“Out,” he told Levinson. Didn’t look away from the screen. “Send the file. Encrypted. Now.”

Levinson packed up in 30 seconds. “Bed rest, 48 hours. No stress. No exertion. I’ll send a nurse for overnight vitals.” He paused at the door. “And Mr. Knight? Her blood pressure. Keep it down.”

The door locked. _Beep_.

Just me. Adrian. And _whoosh-whoosh-whoosh_ still playing in my head.

“You heard him,” Adrian said. “Bed rest.”

“You heard him,” I shot back. My voice shook. “He said congratulations. Not ‘congratulations, warden.’”

Adrian finally looked away from the frozen ultrasound image. His eyes were gold again. But not cold. _Hot_. Wild.

“Beth.” My name was a curse. A prayer. “Do you know what Valeria posted ten minutes ago?”

He held up his phone. TMZ. My face. From my driver’s license. Grainy. Terrified.

*KNIGHT’S BABY TRAP: WHO IS BETHANY CALDWELL?*

_Sources say the Queens waitress has been stalking Adrian for months. Fake pregnancy? Inside job?_

“They have your address,” Adrian said. Quiet. Deadly. “They have your mom’s address in Florida. They have your ex-boyfriend giving quotes about how ‘she always wanted a rich guy.’”

My ex. Derek. Who cheated on me with his manager at Applebee’s.

“They had it an hour ago,” Adrian continued. “I have twelve men at your apartment now. Packing your things. Your landlady got a check for $50,000 to terminate your lease and keep her mouth shut. You don’t live there anymore.”

He erased me. In 60 minutes.

“You didn’t—”

“I did.” He stepped closer. The couch dipped when he sat. Not touching me. But caging me with his body. With his shadow. With his _smell_. Sandalwood and rage. “Because if you walk out that door, Beth, you don’t make it to the elevator. Valeria’s fans will tear you apart. The media will eat you alive. And our son—”

“Our _son_,” I cut in. “You decided that already? What if—”

“I don’t care if it’s a girl,” he snarled. “I don’t care if it has three heads. It’s _mine_. It’s _ours_. And I will burn this city to the ground before I let anyone touch it.”

He grabbed my hand. Not gentle. Desperate. Pressed my palm to his chest.

His heart was going _whoosh-whoosh-whoosh_. 167 BPM. Same as the baby’s.

“Feel that?” he whispered. “That’s what you did to me. Six weeks ago you walked out and I let you. I’ve regretted it every second since.” His forehead dropped to mine. Breathing me in like oxygen. “I’m not regretting it twice.”

This was it. The truth. Not protection. Not heir. _Obsession_.

“You’re insane,” I breathed.

“Probably.” His thumb brushed my lips. “But I’m insane with a $40 billion net worth and a son to protect. So you’re staying.”

[SFX: IPAD CHIME. SUSAN’S VOICE THROUGH THE INTERCOM.]

“Sir? The agreements. And Ms. D’Souza’s lawyer is on line one. He’s threatening—”

“Tell him to threaten me in person,” Adrian snapped. He didn’t move away from me. “And tell him if one more photo of Beth hits the internet, I’ll buy his firm and fire him on live TV.”

The intercom clicked off.

Adrian stood. Adjusted his cuffs. Mask sliding back into place. CEO again. Jailer again.

“Rest,” he said. “Susan will bring the contracts. Read them. Sign them.”

“What if I don’t?”

He paused at the door. Didn’t turn around.

“Then you stay anyway,” he said. “But it’s easier if you sign, Beth. For you. For _him_.”

The door beeped. Locked.

_Beep_.

Again.

I looked at the ultrasound photo Levinson left. The blob. The flicker. 167 BPM.

My hand went to my stomach. Flat. Still. No evidence except nausea and terror.

_I’m sorry_, I told the flicker. _Your dad’s a psycho. And your mom’s a prisoner._

[SFX: PHONE BUZZING. ADRIAN’S PHONE, LEFT ON THE TABLE.]

The screen lit up.

*VALERIA*: You’ll regret this. I’ll make sure the whole world knows what kind of monster you are. And what kind of whore she is.

Below it, a preview image. My apartment. Door kicked in. Adrian’s men in black standing over my things.

He’d erased me. To save me.

Or to own me.

I didn’t know which was worse.

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