CHAPTER ONE

|| Isabella's POV ||

I pressed my palm against the cool window glass for the third time in an hour, searching the driveway for headlights that refused to appear.

This had been the same routine, every night for nine months… and Aaron had warned me countless times about waiting up for him.

But tonight was different.

My hand moved to my swollen belly, fingers tracing gentle circles over the taut skin, trying to soothe our unborn daughter who was kicking restlessly. Even she seemed to sense my anxiety, her movements more agitated than usual.

He promised. He promised he'd be here.

Aaron had looked me in the eye three days ago when Dr. Morrison said the baby could come any time now. He'd nodded, his jaw set in that way that made him look carved from marble, and said, "I'll be here. I won't miss it."

I'd wanted to believe him. God, how desperately I wanted to believe him.

The baby kicked again, hard enough to make me wince. "I know, sweetheart," I whispered, rubbing the spot where her tiny foot pressed against my ribs. "I know you want to meet Daddy too. He'll be here. He has to be here."

But the driveway remained empty, the house silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

I pulled my phone from my pocket with trembling hands and dialed Aaron's number again.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then went to voicemail.

His voice—cold and professional—instructed me to leave a message. I didn't. There was no point. I'd already left four messages in the past hour, each one more desperate than the last.

I tried again. And again. Each time, the same result—ringing, then silence, then that impersonal voicemail greeting.

My anxiety spiked, sharp and overwhelming. Where was he? Why wasn't he answering? Had something happened?

Or worse—did he simply not care?

"Mrs. Styles?"

I turned to see Mrs. Rivera standing in the doorway, her weathered face etched with concern. She'd been with the Styles family for thirty years, had probably seen everything there was to see in this house.

Including a husband who couldn't be bothered to come home to his pregnant wife.

"Yes?" I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Perhaps you should sit down, dear. Standing for so long isn't good for you or the baby."

The pity in her eyes was unmistakable. That soft, sympathetic look that said she knew—everyone knew—that I wasn't loved by my husband.

"I'm fine," I lied, turning back to the window. "Aaron will be here soon. He promised."

Mrs. Rivera didn't respond, but I could feel her gaze on my back. The weight of her unspoken words, her silent judgment of Aaron's absence.

She wasn't the only one. The entire household staff looked at me with that same pitying expression. The poor Mrs. Styles, married to a man who could barely stand to be in the same room as her.

And it all came down to the huge mistake I'd made a year ago.

The memory still burned, sharp and humiliating, no matter how many times I tried to push it away.

It had been at a business party—one of those glittering affairs with champagne and chandeliers and people in expensive clothes making deals worth millions. I'd been there representing my family, trying to salvage what remained of the Stone Corporation's reputation.

A man had cornered me in a hallway. His hands had grabbed too tight, his breath reeking of alcohol as he'd pushed me against the wall, his intentions clear and terrifying.

And then Aaron had appeared like some dark angel, pulling the man away from me, his fist connecting with the man's face with a sickening crack.

He'd saved me.

I'd wanted to thank him. Just thank him. So I'd mustered up the courage to approach him later that evening, my hands shaking as I'd offered him a drink, trying to smile, trying to show my gratitude.

I hadn't known that Matthew had drugged it.

My own brother—desperate and drowning in debt, seeing opportunity in my rescue and Aaron's wealth—had slipped something into that glass.

The rest was a blur of shame and horror. Waking up in an unfamiliar bed, Aaron beside me, both of us confused and disheveled. The cold realization of what had happened. The pregnancy test four weeks later with its two devastating pink lines.

And then the marriage.

Quick, quiet, devoid of any warmth or joy. Just a legal contract to avoid scandal, to keep the Styles name clean.

Aaron—he'd always treated me coldly after that. As if I were the one who'd orchestrated everything, as if I'd planned to trap him from the beginning.

He believed I was complicit. That Matthew and I had schemed together to drug him, to force this marriage, to steal his freedom and his future.

Nothing I said made any difference. He'd made up his mind about who I was, and no amount of pleading or explaining would change it.

So I'd learned to live with his coldness. With the way he looked through me as if I didn't exist. With the separate bedrooms and the careful distance he maintained at all times.

I was preparing to fight again now. To try one more time to make him understand that I hadn't wanted this either, that I was as much a victim as he was.

But first, he had to come home.

I dialed his number again, my hands shaking.

This time, someone answered.

But it wasn't Aaron.

"Hello?" The voice was feminine, sweet, dripping with false concern.

My heart sank. "Anastasia?"

"Oh, Isabella." Anastasia's tone shifted, becoming almost patronizing. "Aaron's phone. He's quite busy at the moment, I'm afraid. He doesn't have time to take your call."

Anastasia Cole. The woman Aaron was supposed to marry. The woman Victoria had chosen for him, perfect and poised and everything I wasn't.

She was still in his life, of course. Working as his assistant now, always at his side, always available when I wasn't.

"Please," I said, hating how desperate I sounded. "I need to speak with him. It's urgent. I'm—the baby is coming. I think I'm going into labor."

There was a pause, and I could almost hear Anastasia's cruel smile through the phone.

"I'm sure it's not that serious, Isabella. You know how you tend to be... dramatic about these things. Aaron has an important meeting right now. I really can't interrupt him for every little ache and pain."

"This isn't—" I started, but the line went dead.

She'd hung up on me.

I stared at my phone in disbelief, then immediately tried calling back.

Busy signal.

I tried again. Busy signal.

Again. Busy signal.

She'd blocked me. Or turned off his phone. Either way, I couldn't reach him.

Panic fluttered in my chest, sharp and suffocating.

And then the pain hit.

A contraction—sharp and unmistakable—radiated from my lower back around to my belly, so intense it stole my breath and made my knees buckle.

I grabbed the window ledge to steady myself, gasping.

"No," I whispered. "Not now. Not without him. Please..."

But my body wasn't listening to my desperate pleas.

Another contraction, stronger this time, doubling me over.

I was going into labor.

And Aaron wasn't here.