The Attack

Devon paced in his bedroom, phone pressed to his ear. "She refused the money, Nana," he said into the phone. "Fifty million dollars, and she didn't even think twice about it."

On the other end of the line, Eliza Cage, Devon's eighty-year-old grandmother and Nana like they call her, chuckled softly. "Well, that tells you something about her character, doesn't it?"

Devon ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of frustration from a man who prided himself on always being in control. "It tells me she's unreasonable. Or that she wants more."

"Or," Nana said gently, "it tells you that she's a mother who loves her child more than money."    

Devon stopped pacing. The thought hadn't even occurred to him. In his world, everything and everyone had a price. That someone might genuinely choose something—someone—over wealth was almost incomprehensible.

"Devon," Nana continued, "you were rude to her. Offering a mother money to give up her child... it's not right. And it wasn't her mistake in the first place, was it? The clinic mixed up the samples. Don't be so hard on her."

Devon sighed and sat on the edge of his king-sized bed. "What am I supposed to do, then? Just let her raise my child? The Cage heir?"

"Do this for me," Nana said. "Go to her tomorrow and talk about co-parenting."

"Co-parenting?" Devon exclaimed, standing up again. "Nana, I don't even know this woman!"

"Of course, son," Nana said calmly. "Look, she would most likely never give up the baby. And I know you—if you say she will, I know you would do anything to get her to sign. But this is not your regular business deal. This is your child, the future heir. My first great-grandchild from my favorite grandson."

Devon's expression softened at his grandmother's words. Nana had raised him after his mother died. She was the only person in the world whose opinion truly mattered to him.

"Please don't be too hard on her," Nana continued. "Be nice. For me."

Devon closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Alright. I'll talk to her tomorrow. Nicely."

"That's my boy," Nana said warmly. "I love you."

"I love you too," Devon replied, the words coming easily with her when they rarely did with anyone else.

After hanging up, Devon stood at his window, looking out at the city below. Somewhere out there was Clara Stone, carrying his child. A stranger who had somehow upended his carefully controlled life in the span of a day.

Across town in Clara's small apartment, Sarah was fixing a bowl of sliced fruits in the kitchen while Clara sat curled up on her worn but cozy sofa, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

"But girl, fifty million dollars," Sarah said, bringing the bowl over and sitting beside Clara. "That's a lot of money. I mean, even if you work for fifty years, you won't be able to have that kind of money. Why not just give up this baby? You would have the opportunity to make another baby."

"No," Clara admitted. "Look, I'm not having this conversation again. I will keep this baby alone with no one's help. So never speak about this to me again, okay?"

Sarah nodded, recognizing the determination in her friend's voice. They'd known each other since college, and when Clara set her mind to something, there was no changing it.

"I'm just worried about you," Sarah said after a moment. "Being kidnapped by billionaires isn't exactly part of the normal pregnancy experience."

Despite the stress of the day, Clara laughed. "No, I guess not. But I'll be fine. Devon Cage might be powerful, but even he can't force me to give up my baby."

They watched a movie together, though Clara could barely focus on the screen. Her mind kept replaying the events of the day—the shocking news from the doctor, the kidnapping, the confrontation with Devon, the joy of seeing that positive pregnancy test.

The next day crawled by at Clara's little flower shop. She tried to lose herself in arranging bouquets—roses and lilies for a wedding, sunflowers for a "get well soon" arrangement, carnations for a birthday. The familiar scents and textures usually soothed her, but today her mind kept wandering.

The bell over the door jingled around five o'clock, and Clara looked up with a forced smile, ready to greet a customer. Instead, she saw Yvonne Blackwell.

Clara's stomach dropped. "Um, can I help you?" Clara asked, her voice tighter than she intended.

Yvonne looked around the shop with barely disguised disdain, as if assessing a property she was considering demolishing. "Quaint little place you have here," she said, running a manicured finger over a shelf of ceramic pots.

"Thank you," Clara replied stiffly. "Is there something you need?"

Yvonne turned her cold gaze to Clara. "I need you to be reasonable. I love Devon. We're getting married in five months. I don't need some... complication like you in our lives."

"I didn't ask to be a 'complication,'" Clara said. "This wasn't my mistake."

"Maybe fifty million was too small," Yvonne said, opening her designer purse and pulling out a folded cheque. "I'll make it Two hundred. Sign off the rights of the baby to me, and you will never have to worry about anything ever again."

Clara took a deep breath, trying to control her anger. "I already told Devon, and now I'm telling you: I will never give up my baby. Not for fifty million, not for a hundred million. Not for any amount."

"You're being ridiculous," Yvonne said, her perfect composure cracking slightly. "Do you know what you could do with a hundred million dollars? You could buy a mansion. You could travel the world. Start a bigger business. Never work another day in your life!"

"I don't care," Clara said firmly. "Money isn't everything."

Yvonne laughed, a cold, brittle sound. "Of course money is everything. Don't pretend you're somehow above it. Everyone wants money."

"I want my baby more," Clara said simply. "Now please leave my shop."

Yvonne's face hardened. "You're making a mistake."

"The only mistake was made by the fertility clinic," Clara replied. "Please go. Now."

For a moment, Yvonne stood perfectly still, her eyes locked with Clara's. Then she turned sharply on her heel and strode to the door. Before leaving, she looked back one last time.

"You'll regret this," she said, her voice low and threatening as she left the shop.

Outside, Yvonne slid into the back seat of her sleek white Mercedes. Her driver looked at her through the rearview mirror.

"Where to, Ms. Blackwell?" he asked.

"Just drive," she snapped, pulling out her phone.

"I tried but you wouldn't listen," she muttered, thinking of Clara's stubborn face. "Now face the consequences."

She made the call.

"Do it today," she said when the man answered. "And if possible, end her too."

She ended the call and dropped the phone back into her purse, staring straight ahead as the car moved through traffic.

An hour after Yvonne left, Clara finished cleaning the workbench and checking the water levels in the display coolers. She was just about to lock up when the bell jingled again.

A man stood in the doorway—tall, broad, wearing a dark jacket despite the warm evening. Something about him made the hair on the back of Clara's neck stand up.

"Can I help you?" she asked cautiously.

"Need some flowers," the man said gruffly. "For my wife."

Clara relaxed slightly. Just a last-minute customer. "What kind does she like?"

"Doesn't matter," the man said, approaching the counter. "Something pretty."

Clara turned to the display cooler. "Roses are always nice. Or maybe—"

She never finished her sentence. Something hit her from behind—the man's fist connecting with her back. She fell forward, catching herself on the edge of the counter, but before she could turn or scream, a foot slammed into her stomach.

Pain exploded through her abdomen as she collapsed to the floor. The man kicked her again, directly in the stomach, and Clara curled into a ball, trying to protect her baby.

"No, please," she gasped. "I'm pregnant."

The man hesitated for just a second—just long enough for Clara to reach behind her, fingers scrambling for the alarm button under the counter.

She found it and pressed hard. An ear-splitting wail filled the shop.

The man cursed and ran, slamming through the door just as a sleek black car pulled up outside.

Devon Cage sat in the back of his car, rehearsing what he would say to Clara. After his talk with Nana, he'd spent the day thinking about how to approach the situation. Co-parenting still seemed like a foreign concept to him, but perhaps it could work. They could draw up an agreement, set clear boundaries, make it as businesslike as possible.

His driver had just pulled up in front of Clara's flower shop when the door burst open and a man ran out, looking panicked.

Devon's instincts flared. Something was wrong.

"Wait here," he told his driver, motioning for his bodyguard to follow him.

They were halfway to the shop when an alarm started blaring from inside. Devon broke into a run, pushing through the door with his bodyguard right behind him.

What he saw inside made his blood run cold.

Clara was lying on the floor, curled into a fetal position, her arms wrapped protectively around her stomach. There was blood on her lip, and her face was contorted in pain.

Devon was at her side in an instant, kneeling on the floor beside her, not caring about his thousand-dollar suit.

"Clara," he called out, gently turning her face toward him. "Clara, can you hear me?"

Her eyelids fluttered. "Devon?" she whispered, her voice weak with pain.

"I'm here," he said, surprising himself with the gentleness in his voice. Her eyes filled with tears. "Save our baby," she said, her voice breaking. "Please."

And then her eyes closed as she lost consciousness. Without hesitation, he scooped Clara into his arms and strode back to his car.

"Hospital. Now," he barked at his driver.