The day a New York billionaire walked out of his glass tower, saw a woman collapse on the sidewalk, and realized she was the one night he’d never been able to forget

PART ONE – THE GIRL OUTSIDE SULLIVAN TOWER

The receptionist’s perfectly manicured nail tapped against the edge of her desk as she glanced at the clock for the hundredth time that afternoon.

5:30 p.m.

Finally.

Margaret Chen gathered her designer purse and stood, smoothing her pencil skirt with practiced precision. Through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows of Sullivan Enterprises’ Manhattan lobby, she could still see the woman standing on the sidewalk across the street, still there the way she’d been all day.

Margaret allowed herself a small, satisfied smirk.

The girl was pretty—she’d give her that. Natural beauty, the kind that didn’t need the three layers of foundation Margaret wore to achieve “effortless” flawlessness. Glossy dark hair that caught the late afternoon sun, delicate features, and an almost ethereal quality that had sparked an ugly twist of envy in Margaret’s chest the moment she’d laid eyes on her that morning.

Which was exactly why Margaret had been so thoroughly, deliciously cruel.

The memory still warmed her.

The young woman had approached the reception desk at 8:45 sharp, her voice soft and trembling.

“I need to speak with Mr. Sullivan, please. Carter Sullivan. It’s… it’s urgent.”

Margaret had looked her up and down with deliberate slowness, taking in the simple cotton dress, the worn but clean sneakers, the complete absence of designer labels.

Not their usual clientele. Not even close.

“Mr. Sullivan doesn’t see anyone without an appointment,” Margaret had said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “And his schedule is booked solid for the next six months.”

“Please,” the woman had whispered. “I just need five minutes. It’s personal.”

“Personal?” Margaret’s laugh had been sharp. “Mr. Sullivan doesn’t do personal visits at the office. Company policy. And you can’t wait here.” She’d lowered her voice into a mock‑apologetic purr. “Security regulations.”

She’d practically herded the girl toward the doors, watching with satisfaction as confusion and hurt flickered across that pretty face. The security guards had looked uncomfortable, but they hadn’t intervened.

Of course they hadn’t. Margaret had worked at Sullivan Enterprises for five years. She knew the rules—or at least, she knew how to bend them when it suited her purposes.

Now, ten hours later, the girl was still there.

Margaret pushed through the revolving doors into the cooling New York evening and paused, studying the figure across the street. The woman was swaying slightly, one hand pressed against the building’s stone façade as if she needed the support. She looked pale. Exhausted.

Good, Margaret thought viciously. Maybe she’ll finally give up and leave Mr. Sullivan alone.

She didn’t know why she felt such fierce protectiveness over a man who barely noticed her existence. Carter Sullivan was so far above her pay grade it was laughable, but she’d nurtured a careful fantasy over the years, one where he would finally look up from his endless meetings and see her. Really see her.

This woman, with her simple clothes and desperate eyes, threatened that fantasy in ways Margaret couldn’t quite articulate.

“Pathetic,” Margaret muttered, turning toward the parking garage. She didn’t look back.

Natalie Spencer’s vision was starting to blur at the edges, a gray fog creeping into her peripheral vision like an unwelcome guest.

She pressed her palm harder against the cool stone of the building behind her, willing her knees to lock, her legs to hold just a little longer.

Just until he comes out, she told herself. Just until I can see his face.

The baby—she couldn’t call it anything else now, not after seeing those two pink lines—was barely the size of a lemon, but it felt like it was already taking everything from her. Her energy. Her appetite. Her ability to stand upright for more than a few hours without feeling like she might crumble.

She hadn’t eaten since yesterday. The thought of food made her stomach revolt, and the anxiety had been so overwhelming she’d barely managed to keep down water. But she’d known she had to do this. Had to tell him.

Carter Sullivan.

Even his name sent a complicated tangle of emotions through her chest. Desire, anger, hope, despair.

The memory of his hands on her skin, the sound of his laugh against her ear, the way he’d looked at her like she was the only person in the universe—It all felt like a fever dream now. Something too perfect to be real.

Maybe it hadn’t been real. Maybe for him it had just been another night with another woman.

But the baby was real. The baby was very, very real.

Natalie’s hand drifted to her still‑flat stomach, a protective gesture she’d been making unconsciously for days.

Two months.

It had been two months since that night. Two months since the most incredible and terrifying experience of her twenty‑six years on this planet.

She’d been so stupid. So recklessly, beautifully stupid.

Her best friend Charlotte had dragged her to that charity gala, insisting she needed to get out more and stop being a hermit.

“You translate French contracts in your grandma’s Brooklyn apartment and talk to no one but your laptop,” Charlotte had complained. “You need champagne, music, and bad decisions.”

Natalie had protested that she didn’t belong in that world of champagne towers and thousand‑dollar dresses. She was a freelance translator who worked from her grandmother’s tiny rent‑controlled place, surviving on instant ramen and the occasional splurge at the Thai place down the street.

But Charlotte came from money—real Upper East Side money—and she’d bought Natalie a dress. Elegant, simple, borrowed. She’d refused to take no for an answer.

“You’re brilliant and gorgeous, and you spend too much time alone with French legal documents,” Charlotte had said. “Live a little.”

So Natalie had lived.

And look where it got her.

The moment Carter Sullivan’s eyes had met hers across that glittering Manhattan ballroom, something had shifted in the air. He’d been surrounded by important‑looking people, tall and commanding in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. But when he looked at her, everyone else had simply disappeared.

He’d crossed the room like a man on a mission, and when he’d smiled—God, when he’d smiled—Natalie had forgotten how to breathe.

They’d talked for hours about everything and nothing. He’d made her laugh so hard she’d snorted champagne, which should have been mortifying, but instead had made him laugh even harder.

The chemistry between them had been like a living thing, crackling and urgent and impossible to ignore.

When he’d leaned down and whispered, “Come with me,” she hadn’t hesitated.

The hotel room had been beautiful, the kind of luxury New York hotel that made her anxiety spike for approximately ten seconds before his mouth had found hers and thinking became impossible.

He’d been gentle and focused, attentive in ways she hadn’t known existed outside the kind of romances people talk about more discreetly online. He’d taken his time, listening to every nervous breath, every hesitant yes, treating her heart as carefully as her body.

It had been her first time, and he’d held her afterward when she’d unexpectedly cried—not from pain, but from the overwhelming intimacy of it all.

They’d stayed awake until dawn, bodies tangled in silk sheets, sharing secrets and dreams and kisses that tasted like promises.

And then his phone had rung.

She’d watched his face transform from soft and open to hard and terrified in the space of a heartbeat.

His father was in the hospital. Critical condition.

He’d dressed in seconds, kissing her forehead, promising he’d be back, promising this wasn’t over.

But in his panic, he’d forgotten to leave his number, and she’d been too shocked, too overwhelmed to think to ask.

When she’d woken up alone hours later, the sheets still smelling like him, she’d felt the first cold fingers of doubt curl around her heart.

He was Carter Sullivan. Billionaire entrepreneur. CEO of Sullivan Enterprises. She’d looked him up afterward, seen the articles, the photos of him with beautiful women at charity events and business galas all over New York and beyond.

He lived in a world so far removed from hers they might as well have been on different planets.

Maybe he regretted it. Maybe it had been a moment of weakness, a night of slumming it with the regular people. Maybe he’d woken up relieved that she hadn’t left her number, that he could forget the whole thing ever happened.

Pride had kept her from seeking him out. Pride and fear and the bone‑deep certainty that she couldn’t survive being rejected by him.

Until the test had shown positive.

Until she’d realized she was carrying his child.

That changed everything.

He deserved to know.

She’d spent weeks gathering courage, rehearsing what she’d say. She’d looked up the address of Sullivan Enterprises’ headquarters in midtown Manhattan, arrived early, her heart hammering against her ribs.

And that receptionist—that cruel, beautiful woman—had looked at her like she was dirt on her shoe.

Natalie had tried to explain, had tried to convey the urgency without revealing too much. But the woman’s eyes had been as cold as polished marble, and before Natalie knew what was happening, she was being escorted out by security guards who wouldn’t meet her gaze.

So she’d waited.

What else could she do? Carter had to leave eventually. Had to see her eventually.

She’d stand here all day if she had to.

She just hadn’t accounted for how weak she’d feel. How the humid New York summer would drain her. How her vision would start to swim and her knees would start to buckle.

The glass doors of Sullivan Enterprises burst open.

And suddenly he was there.

Carter Sullivan in the flesh. More devastating than she remembered. Taller somehow, his shoulders broader, his presence more commanding.

He was surrounded by people in expensive suits, talking rapid‑fire about numbers and projections and quarterly reports.

He looked nothing like the man who’d laughed at her terrible jokes and kissed her like she was oxygen and he was drowning.

Natalie tried to move forward, tried to call out his name, but her legs had other ideas. Her vision was going black, and the last thing she registered before the world tilted sideways was the sound of someone shouting.

Then nothing.

Carter Sullivan had been in the middle of explaining why the Henderson merger needed to close by Friday when Marcus, his head of security, made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Sir—someone just collapsed right in front of the building.”

Carter’s first instinct was to keep walking. He had seventeen more items on today’s agenda, a video call with Tokyo in twenty minutes, and a headache that felt like someone was using his skull for percussion practice.

But something in Marcus’s voice—alarm, urgency, something else—made him stop.

“Where?” Carter demanded.

“There. By the east entrance. A woman—”

Carter didn’t hear the rest. He was already running, his expensive Italian shoes slapping against the pavement, his entourage scrambling to keep up.

A small crowd had gathered, but they parted when they saw him coming, probably recognizing the six‑foot‑three frame and the expression that made grown executives panic in board meetings.

And then he saw her.

The world stopped.

Every sound faded to white noise. Every person disappeared.

There was only her.

Crumpled on the concrete like a broken doll. Dark hair spilling across the gray stone. Face so pale it was almost translucent.

“No. No, no, no.”

“Natalie,” he breathed, and the name tore out of him like a prayer.

He was on his knees beside her before he remembered deciding to move, gathering her into his arms with a tenderness that felt like muscle memory.

Her head lolled against his shoulder. She was so light. Too light.

“Sir, should we call an ambulance?” Marcus hovered, radio already in hand.

“No. My car. Now.”

Carter stood in one smooth motion, cradling her against his chest like she was made of glass. Her head tucked perfectly under his chin, and some broken part of him wanted to sob at how right she felt there.

“Clear a path,” he snapped. “Move.”

People scattered. Good. He didn’t have patience for obstacles right now. Not when she was unconscious in his arms, not when he could feel how rapidly her heart was racing against his chest like a frightened bird.

The back of his Bentley was temperature‑controlled luxury, but Carter barely noticed as he slid in with Natalie still pressed against him. He couldn’t seem to let her go, couldn’t stop running his fingers through her hair, checking her pulse, touching her face like he needed to confirm she was real.

“Drive,” he ordered his driver. “My apartment. Fast.”

“Sir, the hospital might be—”

“My apartment,” Carter repeated. “My private physician is on call. Go.”

The car surged forward into Manhattan traffic.

Carter cradled Natalie’s face in his palm, thumbs brushing her too‑sharp cheekbones. She looked exhausted, like she’d been through hell and barely survived.

What happened to you? Where have you been?

Two months. It had been two months, three weeks, and four days since he’d woken up in that hospital room after his father’s death and realized he had no idea how to find her. He didn’t know her last name. He didn’t know where she lived or worked. He didn’t even know if the first name she’d given him—Natalie—had been real.

He’d spent thousands of dollars on private investigators with nothing but a first name and the name of a Manhattan charity gala to work with.

Every dead end had felt like another nail driven into his chest.

And now here she was, unconscious in his arms, looking like she hadn’t eaten or slept in weeks.

Why was she here?

How had she found him?

His penthouse occupied the top three floors of Sullivan Tower, accessible only by private elevator.

Carter swept through the doors and laid Natalie on his bed with excruciating care, arranging pillows beneath her head, smoothing her hair back from her face.

“Dr. Reynolds is five minutes out,” Marcus reported from the doorway. “What do you need?”

“Water. Food. Something gentle. Broth, crackers, whatever,” Carter said tightly. “And find out how long she was standing outside my building. I want security footage. I want to know when she arrived and why no one let her in.”

His voice had gone deadly quiet, which his employees knew was far more dangerous than yelling.

“Right away, sir.”

Carter sank into the chair beside the bed, unable to look away from her.

God, she was beautiful. Even pale and exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes like bruises, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He’d thought about her every day—every single day—since she’d disappeared from his life like smoke.

The way she’d laughed at his terrible jokes. The way she’d looked at him like he was more than just his bank account or his last name. The way she’d felt in his arms, soft and warm and perfect.

It had terrified him.

That night with her had been… everything. He’d never felt anything like it. The connection had been instant and overwhelming, like coming home to a place he’d never been.

He’d never been so present with another person. Never felt so seen.

And then his father had called, voice weak and fading, saying this was it, come now, and Carter had thrown on his clothes with shaking hands and run.

He’d meant to come back. He’d intended to return to that hotel room, to the woman who’d looked at him like he was a miracle, to figure out what in the world this thing between them was.

But his father had died at 4:47 a.m., and in the chaos and grief that followed—planning a funeral, managing his father’s estate, suddenly becoming responsible for two traumatized teenagers and a company worth billions—time had blurred.

He’d gotten back to the hotel three days later, only to find she’d checked out.

No forwarding address. No contact information. Nothing.

The private investigators had hit wall after wall. The charity gala’s guest list had been extensive. “Natalie” alone had yielded seventeen possibilities, none of whom matched her description.

The friend she’d mentioned—Charlotte something—had proven equally elusive.

It was like she’d never existed at all.

He’d started to wonder if he’d imagined her. If grief and exhaustion had conjured a perfect woman with kind eyes and a laugh that made his chest ache.

Maybe she’d been too good to be true.

But she was here now. Real and solid and in his bed.

Why?

Dr. Reynolds arrived with his usual efficiency, examining Natalie with practiced hands while Carter hovered like an anxious ghost.

“Dehydration,” the doctor announced. “Exhaustion. When’s the last time she ate?”

“I don’t know,” Carter admitted.

“She needs fluids, rest, and food. In that order,” the doctor said. “I’m setting up an IV. She should wake within the hour.”

He glanced at Carter. “Any idea what caused this?”

“No,” Carter said, jaw clenching. “But I’m going to find out.”

True to prediction, Natalie’s eyes fluttered open forty‑seven minutes later.

Carter was still in the chair beside the bed, unable to move, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest like it was the only thing tethering him to Earth.

Her gaze found him immediately, and even confused and disoriented, the recognition in her eyes hit him like a punch to the solar plexus.

She knew him.

She’d come looking for him specifically.

“Where…?” Her voice came out scratchy.

“My apartment,” he said. “You collapsed outside Sullivan Tower.”

He wanted to touch her so badly his hands ached.

“What were you doing outside my building?”

She blinked, processing, and then something shifted in her expression. Fear. Determination. Resignation. All tangled together.

She pushed herself up on shaky arms, and Carter immediately moved to help, adjusting the pillows behind her.

She looked at him for a long moment. Those eyes—God, those eyes that had haunted his dreams—were full of something he couldn’t read.

And then she said it. Blurted it out like ripping off a bandage.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered. “It’s yours. I spent all day waiting to tell you.”

The room tilted.

Carter heard the words, understood them individually, but together they formed a sentence his brain couldn’t quite process.

Pregnant.

Yours.

All day waiting.

His mind spun through possibilities, implications, every emotion at once until it all blurred into white noise.

She was pregnant with his child.

His immediate instinct was joy. Pure, uncomplicated joy that crashed through him like a wave.

He was going to be a father.

Natalie was here, carrying his baby, and everything in him wanted to pull her close and never let go.

But then another feeling rose up. Cold. Familiar.

Doubt.

Three years ago, a woman named Vanessa Hartley had shown up at his office with ultrasound photos and tears and a story about being pregnant with his child.

He’d believed her. Supported her. Started planning a future.

Until the pregnancy had ended at a very convenient time and it came out that there had never been a pregnancy at all—just forged medical documents and a woman who’d been paid by a rival company to destroy his reputation and distract him during a crucial merger.

The scandal had been brutal. The betrayal had been worse.

Carter looked at Natalie—sweet, kind Natalie, who’d disappeared for two months without a trace—and hated himself for what he was thinking.

But he’d been fooled before, lied to before, and he had two siblings depending on him now, a company to protect, a legacy to preserve.

“Why didn’t you contact me before today?” The words came out harder than he intended.

Something flickered in her eyes. Hurt.

“I tried,” she said hoarsely. “Today. Your receptionist wouldn’t let me in. She said you don’t see anyone without appointments.”

“So you waited outside all day without food or water?” The anger in his voice surprised him—at her, at the situation, at himself. He wasn’t sure.

“I didn’t know how else to reach you,” she said, lifting her chin. “You didn’t leave a number when you ran out that night.”

The accusation stung because it was fair.

“My father was dying,” he said quietly.

“I know that now. I didn’t know it then,” she replied, her hands clasped in her lap, knuckles white. “I’m not here to blame you or ask for anything. You just… you deserve to know. That’s all.”

Carter stood, needing to move, needing to think. His mind was racing through logistics, possibilities, outcomes.

“How far along?”

“Eight weeks,” she answered.

The timeline matched their night together.

But timelines could be manipulated. He’d learned that the hard way.

God, he hated himself. Hated the cold calculation creeping into his thoughts when all he wanted was to trust her, to believe her, to pull her into his arms and tell her everything would be okay.

But people had tried to destroy him before, and they’d use any weapon.

“I want a paternity test,” he said finally.

The words dropped into the room like stones.

The silence that followed stretched so long that Natalie wondered if she’d actually heard him correctly. Maybe her exhausted brain had scrambled the words. Maybe he’d said something else entirely.

But no—the look on his face, distant and controlled, told her she’d heard exactly right.

“A paternity test,” she repeated, her voice flat.

“Yes.”

Something inside her cracked. Not broke—breaking would come later. This was just the first hairline fracture in what would eventually become a complete shattering.

“Of course,” she said. She was proud of how steady her voice sounded. “I expected that.”

It was a lie. She hadn’t expected it at all.

In her naive, foolish heart, she’d imagined… what? That he’d be happy? That he’d pull her close and kiss her and tell her everything would be okay? That the man who’d held her so tenderly, who’d whispered soft words in the dark, who’d looked at her like she was precious, would believe her?

Stupid. So incredibly stupid.

“I’ll arrange for the test tomorrow,” Carter said, and was it her imagination or did he sound relieved, like he’d been bracing for an argument? “Dr. Reynolds can handle it discreetly.”

“Fine.” Natalie swung her legs over the side of the bed, ignoring how the room tilted slightly. The IV was still in her arm, but she didn’t care. She needed to leave.

“I’ll go now.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Carter’s hand shot out, catching her wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop her. “You collapsed. You’re dehydrated. You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he said. “You’re pregnant, and you spent all day in the sun without food or water. That’s not fine.”

“Why do you care?” The words burst out before she could stop them. “You don’t even believe it’s yours. You think I’m lying, so why does it matter?”

Something flashed in his eyes—pain maybe, or guilt—but it was gone before she could be sure.

“Because if you are pregnant, if that baby is mine, then you’re both my responsibility,” he said quietly. “And I take care of what’s mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone should have annoyed her, should have made her bristle, but instead it did something complicated to her chest, made her heart do a stupid little flip she didn’t have time for.

“I’m not yours,” she said softly. “The baby might be.”

“Might be,” he echoed.

She laughed, and it sounded broken. “Right. Of course.”

Carter’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowned, then looked back at her.

“I need to make a call,” he said. “Stay here. Eat something. There’s food coming up.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care. You need to eat.” He was already heading toward the door. “Don’t leave this apartment, Natalie. I mean it.”

And then he was gone, leaving her alone in his massive bedroom with its floor‑to‑ceiling windows overlooking New York City and its enormous bed that probably cost more than her yearly rent.

Natalie looked down at her hands. They were shaking.

What had she expected? Really, truly, what had she expected when she decided to come here today?

Carter Sullivan was a billionaire. A man who lived in a different stratosphere entirely. The fact that they’d shared one magical night didn’t change the fundamental reality of their situations.

He was powerful and wealthy and surrounded by people who wanted things from him.

Of course he’d be suspicious. Of course he’d want proof.

But it still hurt.

It hurt so much more than she’d thought possible.

A knock at the door made her jump.

A man in a white chef’s coat entered with a tray.

“Soup, crackers, fruit, water,” he said kindly. He set it on the nightstand. “Mr. Sullivan insisted you eat, miss. The soup is gentle on the stomach. And there’s ginger tea for nausea.”

“Thank you,” Natalie managed.

When he left, she stared at the food. Her stomach growled despite everything.

When was the last time she’d eaten? Yesterday morning? She couldn’t remember.

The anxiety about coming here had stolen her appetite completely.

The soup was delicious—some kind of vegetable broth with soft noodles. She ate slowly, mechanically, and tried not to think about Carter’s expression when she’d told him about the pregnancy.

That flash of joy she’d seen before the shutters came down.

She hadn’t imagined that. She was sure she hadn’t.

He’d been happy. For maybe three seconds.

Then the doubt had crept in.

What had happened to him to make him so mistrustful?

In his study, Carter listened to Marcus’s report with mounting fury that had nowhere to go but inward.

“Security footage shows she arrived at 8:42 a.m., sir,” Marcus said. “She approached the front desk at 8:45. Ms. Chen spoke with her for approximately ninety seconds before escorting her out. The subject then positioned herself across the street and remained there for the next nine hours and sixteen minutes.”

“Nine hours,” Carter repeated, voice dangerously quiet. “She stood outside my building for nine hours without food, without water. Pregnant.”

“It appears so, sir.”

“And Margaret Chen turned her away.”

“According to the footage, yes. Ms. Chen appeared to be… dismissive.”

“Dismissive.” Carter replayed the footage on his laptop, watching Natalie approach the desk with her shoulders squared despite obvious nervousness. Watching Margaret’s face transform into something cold and cruel. Watching Natalie’s expression crumble.

Watching her stand outside his building for hours in the summer heat, swaying on her feet, pressing her hand against the wall for support.

All because she wanted to tell him he was going to be a father.

The guilt was a living thing, clawing at his insides.

She’d told him the truth about trying to reach him. About being turned away. About waiting all day.

But that didn’t mean she was telling the truth about everything else.

God, he hated this. Hated the suspicion that had become second nature. Hated that he couldn’t just trust her.

“Find out everything about Margaret Chen,” he said. “Why she turned Natalie away. Whether there was any communication beforehand. Anything suspicious.”

“Already on it, sir,” Marcus replied.

He hesitated. “And about Ms. Spencer… the investigation you requested. The preliminary report should be ready by morning.”

Right. The investigation.

Carter had sent Natalie’s first name and the little he knew about her to his private investigator the moment he’d recognized her unconscious on the sidewalk, before he’d even known about the pregnancy. Just a gut instinct to know everything about the woman who’d haunted him for two months.

Now it felt dirty. Invasive. Like a betrayal.

Necessary, the cold part of his brain insisted.

You need to know who she really is.

“Send it when it’s ready,” he said, and hated himself a little more.

When he returned to the bedroom, Natalie had finished eating. She was standing by the window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the city lights.

She looked small.

Fragile.

Beautiful.

“Better?” he asked quietly.

She didn’t turn around. “Thank you for the food.”

“You should rest,” he said. “The guest room is made up. Or… you can stay here. I’ll take the couch.”

“I should go home.”

“Not tonight.” Carter moved closer, unable to help himself. “It’s late. You’re exhausted. Please just stay. One night.”

She finally turned to look at him, and the expression on her face gutted him.

It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t even hurt.

It was resignation.

Like she’d expected disappointment and he’d delivered exactly that.

“One night,” she agreed quietly. “But then I’m leaving.”

“We’ll talk about that tomorrow.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said. “You’ll do your test, get your results, and then—” She shrugged. “Then you’ll either believe me or you won’t.”

“Natalie—”

“I’m tired, Carter. Can you just show me where I’m sleeping?”

He wanted to argue. Wanted to explain about Vanessa, about the betrayal, about why he was this way.

But the exhaustion in her eyes stopped him.

“This way,” he said instead.

The guest room was down the hall, spacious and elegant, with its own bathroom and a bed that looked like a cloud.

Natalie walked in without a word, and Carter found himself hovering in the doorway like an idiot.

“If you need anything…”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “There are clothes in the closet?”

“My assistant keeps the guest room stocked.”

“Okay.”

“And if you get hungry again, the kitchen—”

“Carter.” She finally looked at him. Really looked at him. “I’m not going to rob you in the middle of the night. I’m not going to trash your apartment or steal your valuables or whatever you’re worried about. I’m just going to sleep. That’s all.”

The accusation stung because it was fair.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he said.

“Then what are you worried about?”

You, he wanted to say. I’m worried about you. About how pale you look. About how you stood outside my building for nine hours because you had no other way to reach me. About how badly I want to believe you, and how terrified I am to do it.

What came out instead was, “Just… rest well.”

And then he closed the door before he could do something reckless like beg her to believe he wasn’t the monster he was acting like.

In the hallway, Carter leaned against the wall and tried to breathe.

She was here.

Under his roof.

Possibly carrying his child.

After two months of searching, of wondering, she’d walked right up to his building, and he’d had her turned away.

His phone buzzed with an email: the preliminary report from his investigator.

Carter stared at it for a long moment before opening it—and hated himself just a little more.

PART TWO – TRUST, DOUBT, AND A HEARTBEAT

Natalie woke at 3:00 a.m. with her stomach staging a full‑scale rebellion.

She barely made it to the bathroom before losing the meager dinner she’d managed to keep down.

Morning sickness, she’d discovered, was a cruel misnomer. It struck whenever it wanted to, with a viciousness that left her weak and shaking.

She was crouched on the cool marble floor, forehead pressed against her arm, when she heard the knock.

“Natalie? Are you okay?” Carter’s voice.

Of course. Because apparently this situation wasn’t humiliating enough already.

“I’m fine,” she croaked. “Go away.”

The door opened anyway—because apparently “go away” translated to “please come watch this” in billionaire.

“I said I’m—” She looked up, intending to unleash every ounce of irritation she had left and stopped.

Carter was standing in the doorway in soft pajama pants, hair disheveled, eyes worried.

He was holding a mug.

“Is that… ginger tea?” she asked weakly.

“How did you know?” he said, coming in to set it on the counter.

“Because I practically live on it now,” she muttered.

He wetted a washcloth, kneeling beside her to press it gently against her forehead.

The gesture was so gentle, so unexpected, that Natalie felt tears prick her eyes, which was ridiculous. She was not going to cry over a washcloth.

“I’m a mess,” she muttered instead.

“You’re pregnant,” he countered. “There’s a difference.”

“Same result,” she said. “Messiness.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile.

“Drink the tea,” he urged. “It helps.”

She sipped it carefully, the warmth spreading through her chest.

“You keep ginger tea on hand for your pregnant guests?” she asked.

“I keep ginger tea on hand because I’m apparently a masochist who drinks it when I have a hangover,” he said dryly. “But Mrs. Chen—the housekeeper, not the receptionist—swears by it for morning sickness.”

“How would your housekeeper know about morning sickness?”

“She’s had six kids,” he said. “She’s a walking encyclopedia of pregnancy wisdom. I called her at two in the morning asking for advice. She was thrilled. Thought I’d finally gotten a girlfriend.”

Natalie shouldn’t have found that funny. She shouldn’t have laughed when she was sitting on a bathroom floor feeling awful.

But the image of powerful, intimidating Carter Sullivan calling his housekeeper in the middle of the night for pregnancy tips was too absurd not to appreciate.

“You called your housekeeper at 2:00 a.m.?” she asked.

“I heard you get up,” he said. “Thought you might need…” He gestured toward the tea. “This.”

“That’s unexpectedly thoughtful for someone who thinks I might be lying about the baby,” she said quietly.

The words hung between them.

Carter’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“I don’t think you’re lying,” he said carefully. “I think I need to be sure. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” she countered. She took another sip of tea, grateful for something to do with her hands. “Because from where I’m sitting—literally sitting on your bathroom floor—it feels pretty similar.”

He exhaled slowly.

“Three years ago, a woman named Vanessa Hartley told me she was pregnant,” he said. His voice went flat. “She brought ultrasound photos, cried in my office. I believed her. Supported her. Started planning a future.”

Natalie’s stomach clenched, and this time it had nothing to do with nausea.

“The pregnancy was fake,” Carter continued. “The ultrasounds were someone else’s. She was being paid by a competitor to distract me during a crucial merger. By the time I found out, the damage was already done. The deal fell through, my name was dragged through every business paper in the country, and I looked like a fool.”

“Carter,” she whispered.

“So yes,” he said quietly. “I need to be sure. Because I have two siblings who depend on me, ten thousand employees whose livelihoods are tied to this company, and I can’t afford to be fooled again.”

He finally met her eyes.

“But that doesn’t mean I think you’re lying,” he said. “It means I’ve been burned before, and I’m cautious.”

The explanation should have made her feel better. It did, in a cold, logical way.

But it didn’t change the fact that he was comparing her to a woman who’d betrayed him. That he was investigating her. That he couldn’t just trust her.

“I’m not her,” Natalie said quietly.

“I know,” he replied.

“Do you? Because it really doesn’t feel like you do.”

He reached out like he might touch her face, then stopped himself.

“I’m trying,” he said softly. “That’s the best I can offer right now.”

It wasn’t enough.

But nothing about this situation was what she’d hoped for.

“I should go back to bed,” she said, setting the empty cup down. “Can you stand?” he asked.

“I’m not an invalid,” she muttered.

But when she tried to get up, her legs were unsteady and her head spun.

Carter caught her instantly, one arm around her waist, the other steadying her shoulder, and suddenly they were pressed together, her hands flat against his bare chest, his face inches from hers.

Time stopped.

She could feel his heartbeat under her palm, rapid and unsteady. She could see the gold flecks in his green eyes, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow. She could smell his cologne—cedar and something warm and distinctly him.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there.

“Natalie,” he said, and his voice was rough in a way that had nothing to do with the hour.

She should pull away. She should put distance between them. She should not be noticing the way his thumb was drawing unconscious circles on her waist.

“I should—” she began.

“Stay,” he finished.

So she did.

They stood in the bathroom doorway, barely breathing, balanced on the knife‑edge between past and future.

Then Carter’s phone buzzed from somewhere in his bedroom. Loud. Insistent. Oblivious to the moment it was destroying.

They broke apart like they’d been shocked.

“Sorry,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “That might be Tokyo.”

“It’s fine,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the apartment’s perfect temperature. “Go.”

He hesitated.

“If you need anything—”

“I know where the ginger tea is,” she said.

He almost smiled.

Almost.

Then he was gone, leaving her alone with the echo of his touch.

At 7:00 a.m., Natalie emerged from the guest room, showered and dressed in her rumpled clothes from yesterday. She found Carter in the kitchen, wearing a perfectly tailored suit and arguing in rapid‑fire Japanese on his phone.

He gestured to the elaborate breakfast spread on the counter—fruit, pastries, eggs, bacon—and mouthed, Eat.

She picked at a croissant and tried not to stare.

How could someone look that put‑together at seven in the morning? His hair was perfectly styled, his jaw freshly shaved, his tie knotted with mathematical precision.

He looked nothing like the man who’d stood half asleep in his doorway holding ginger tea.

He ended the call and immediately poured her a glass of orange juice.

“How’s your stomach?” he asked.

“Better,” she said. “The tea helped. Thank you.”

“Good.” He hesitated, then said, “Dr. Reynolds will be here at nine for the paternity test. It’s just a simple blood draw.”

Back to reality.

Back to suspicion.

“Fine,” she said flatly.

“Natalie—”

“What?” She set down the croissant. “What do you want me to say? That I understand? That I’m fine with being investigated and doubted and treated like I’m running some kind of scam? Because I’m not fine with it, Carter. I’m really, really not.”

“I know,” he said.

“But you’re doing it anyway,” she added.

“Yes,” he said. No apology in his tone. Just fact. “Because I have to.”

She laughed once, a brittle sound.

“You know what’s funny?” she said. “That night, I thought…” She shook her head. “I thought it meant something to you. I thought you felt what I felt. But it was just a night to you, wasn’t it?”

“It wasn’t,” he said immediately. “Don’t you dare say it was ‘just a night.’ That night was—” He broke off, jaw tight. “It was everything.”

“Then act like it,” she said. She stood now, the words spilling out. “Act like you remember how you looked at me. How you touched me. How you said you’d never felt anything like that before. Because the man from that night would have believed me. The man from that night would have trusted me.” Her voice cracked. “He would have been naive,” Carter interrupted, his voice suddenly cold. “He would have been an idiot. He would have gotten his heart broken and his life wrecked again.”

The again hung between them.

Natalie picked up her small purse.

“I’m leaving,” she said. “The test will happen when I’m ready. On my terms, not yours.”

She headed for the door.

“You have my information now, right? From your investigation?” she added over her shoulder. “You can contact me when you’re ready to act like a human being instead of a paranoid machine.”

“Natalie—”

She was already gone, the apartment door closing behind her with satisfying finality.

In the hallway, waiting for the elevator, she let herself shake. Let herself cry.

Because that had been harder than she’d expected.

Carter stared at the closed door for a full minute before his brain caught up with reality.

She’d left.

He pulled out his phone and brought up her number from the investigator’s preliminary report, immediately feeling like a villain for having it.

The call went straight to voicemail. He tried again. Same result.

“Damn it,” he muttered, heading back into the apartment.

The breakfast spread still sat untouched, except for the single croissant she’d picked at. The guest room still smelled faintly of her shampoo, something floral and sweet.

Evidence of her presence was everywhere, and the emptiness in her absence hit him like a physical blow.

His phone buzzed.

Marcus: “Sir, the full investigation report is ready. Sending it now.”

“Fine,” he texted back.

He opened his laptop, downloaded the file, and started reading.

With every line, he felt like more of an idiot.

Natalie Marie Spencer, age twenty‑six. Freelance translator specializing in French and Portuguese legal documents. Average annual income: forty‑seven thousand dollars.

No criminal record. No history of litigation. No suspicious financial activity.

Lived with her maternal grandmother, Eleanor “Gran” Spencer, age seventy‑eight, in a rent‑controlled apartment in Brooklyn.

Father unknown.

Mother deceased—overdose. Natalie had been eight years old.

Raised by her grandmother.

Maintained a close friendship with Charlotte Whitmore, daughter of tech magnate Robert Whitmore, since age twelve. Relationship verified as genuine through school records and years of social media history.

No history of long‑term romantic relationships. No evidence of seeking out wealthy partners.

Multiple character references described her as kind, honest, hard‑working, and fiercely independent.

Financial analysis showed no unexplained deposits, no luxury purchases, no debt beyond student loans she’d paid off last year. Rent and utilities paid on time. Groceries bought at budget stores. MetroCard usage consistent with a commuter relying on public transportation.

One line near the end hit him like a punch: “Subject’s freelance work declined 47% in the past three weeks following negative press coverage. Multiple clients terminated contracts citing reputation concerns.”

His stomach dropped.

Her work had declined because of him.

Because someone had photographed her outside his building.

Because someone had leaked it.

He kept reading.

“Subject attended charity gala as guest of Charlotte Whitmore. Verified through guest list, parking records, and security footage. No prior connection to Carter Sullivan or Sullivan Enterprises. No evidence of premeditation or planning. Subject appeared uncomfortable in formal setting, stayed close to Whitmore for majority of evening until encountering Sullivan at approximately 9:47 p.m.”

Conclusion: “Subject shows no indicators of deceptive intent. Financial situation suggests genuine need, not opportunism. Character references and behavioral history support claim of honest disclosure rather than manipulative scheme.”

Carter closed the laptop and dropped his head into his hands.

She was exactly who she said she was.

A good person who’d gotten pregnant after one night with a man whose life looked nothing like hers—and had had the courage to tell him.

And he had treated her like a threat.

His phone rang.

“Dr. Reynolds,” the doctor said. “I take it the paternity test is postponed?”

“Indefinitely,” Carter said. He stood and began pacing. “And Reynolds—set up a full prenatal care package. Top‑tier everything. Send the information to Ms. Spencer’s address.”

“Of course,” the doctor said. “And sir—for what it’s worth, she looked genuinely unwell last night. I’d recommend regular checkups.”

“I know,” Carter replied, rubbing his face. “I know.”

After hanging up, he stared at his phone for a long moment before opening his messages.

What could he possibly say?

Sorry for doubting you.

Sorry for investigating your entire life.

Sorry for being exactly the kind of paranoid man you accused me of being.

He started typing and deleting, typing and deleting, until finally he settled on: “I read the report. You were right about everything. I’m sorry.”

The message showed as delivered.

Then read.

No response came.

Natalie made it three blocks from Sullivan Tower before the tears came in earnest.

She ducked into a coffee shop, ordered tea she didn’t want, and tried to pull herself together.

Her phone buzzed.

A text from Carter.

She read it, felt something twist in her chest, and shoved the phone back in her purse without responding.

What was she supposed to say?

Thanks for confirming I’m not a con artist.

Glad your investigation proved I’m just a broke translator with terrible timing.

The humiliation burned.

He’d investigated her. Actually hired someone to dig through her life, her finances, her history.

She understood why, logically. She did.

Understanding didn’t make it hurt less.

Her phone buzzed again.

Charlotte: “Where are you? Are you okay? Your grandma called, worried.”

Right.

She’d told Gran she was running errands and might be late.

That was yesterday morning.

Before she’d spent nine hours on a sidewalk.

Before she’d collapsed.

Before she’d woken up in a billionaire’s guest room.

“I’m fine,” she texted back. “Long story. Coming home soon.”

Charlotte responded immediately.

“I’m at your apartment with bagels. Get here soon or I’m eating yours.”

Despite everything, Natalie smiled.

Charlotte had been her best friend since seventh grade, when Natalie had been the scholarship girl with the dead mom and the recovering‑addict grandmother, and Charlotte had been the rich girl with the private driver and the designer shoes who’d decided they were going to be friends and hadn’t taken no for an answer.

The friendship had survived everything: different schools, different tax brackets, Charlotte’s parents’ initial disapproval.

Charlotte didn’t care about money or status.

She just cared about people.

Which made what Natalie had to tell her even harder.

Forty minutes later, Natalie walked into the tiny Brooklyn apartment she shared with Gran to find Charlotte sprawled on the couch, eating a bagel, while Gran puttered in the kitchen making tea.

“Finally,” Charlotte said, springing to her feet. “I’ve been waiting for—” She stopped, taking in Natalie’s pale face. “Oh, honey. What happened?”

That was all it took.

Natalie dissolved into tears for the second time that day, which was really starting to become a pattern.

Gran appeared with tissues. Charlotte wrapped her in a hug.

Slowly, haltingly, Natalie told them everything.

The gala. The night with Carter. The missed number. The positive pregnancy test. The attempt to tell him. The collapse. His suspicions. The investigation.

“He investigated you?” Charlotte’s voice went dangerously quiet.

“Language,” Gran warned automatically, though her own expression was thunderous.

“No, it’s fine,” Natalie said, wiping her eyes. “He had reasons. A woman lied to him before. About a pregnancy. I… I get why he’s cautious.”

“Cautious is one thing,” Charlotte snapped. “Treating you like a criminal is another.”

She paced the small living room.

“I’m going to call him. I’m going to—”

“You’re going to do nothing,” Natalie interrupted.

“Nat—”

“This is my situation. My mess. I’ll handle it.”

“By yourself?” Charlotte demanded.

“I’ve handled worse by myself,” Natalie said bitterly.

Gran and Charlotte exchanged a look—the kind that said they were both remembering eight‑year‑old Natalie at her mother’s funeral, teenage Natalie working two jobs, twenty‑something Natalie building a freelance career from scratch.

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” Gran said softly, settling on the couch beside her. “That’s what family is for.”

“And friends,” Charlotte added. “Annoying, persistent friends who won’t leave you alone even when you try to push them away.”

Natalie managed a watery laugh.

“You’re not annoying,” she said.

“Lies,” Charlotte scoffed. “I’m extremely annoying. It’s my best quality.”

She sobered.

“So what’s the plan?” she asked. “Are you going to let him do the paternity test?”

“Eventually,” Natalie said. “When I’m ready. On my terms.”

Her hand drifted to her stomach.

“But I’m keeping this baby either way,” she added quietly. “With or without him.”

“Of course you are,” Gran said, squeezing her hand. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”

“Even if the father thinks I’m after his money,” Natalie muttered.

“He doesn’t think that,” Charlotte said firmly. “If he did, he wouldn’t have apologized. Wouldn’t have sent that text. He’s just scared and not thinking clearly. Men usually aren’t.”

“Hey,” Gran protested. “Your grandfather was a man.”

“My grandfather was the exception that proves the rule,” Charlotte said.

She turned back to Natalie.

“Look, I’m not defending him,” she said. “What he did was wrong. But I’ve seen you two together.”

“You haven’t,” Natalie pointed out. “It was one night.”

“I saw the way he looked at you at the gala,” Charlotte said. “Like you were the only person in the room. Like he’d been looking for you his whole life and finally found you.”

Her expression softened.

“That kind of connection doesn’t just disappear,” she said.

“Connection doesn’t matter if there’s no trust,” Natalie said.

“Then make him earn it back,” Charlotte said bluntly. “Make him work for it. But don’t shut the door completely.”

She pulled out her phone.

“And speaking of doors,” she said, “I’m texting him your prenatal appointment schedule. If he wants to be involved, he can start by showing up when it matters.”

“Charlotte—”

“Too late,” Charlotte said, thumbs flying. “Already sent. You can thank me later.”

Natalie wanted to argue, wanted to insist she could handle this alone.

But the truth was, she was terrified.

Terrified of being a single mother.

Terrified of raising a child without support.

Terrified of her baby growing up wondering why their father didn’t want them.

Her phone buzzed.

Carter: “I’ll be at every appointment. Every ultrasound. Every checkup. If you’ll let me.”

She stared at the message for a long time before responding.

“First appointment is next Wednesday. 2 p.m. Dr. Sarah Chen at Brooklyn Women’s Health. Don’t be late.”

His response was immediate.

“I’ll be there.”

Despite everything—the hurt, the anger, the disappointment—Natalie felt the tiniest flicker of hope.

Carter arrived at Brooklyn Women’s Health at 1:47 p.m.—thirteen minutes early.

He’d left a board meeting mid‑presentation, much to his CFO’s horror, and ridden across Brooklyn with Marcus driving only slightly above the legal speed limit.

Now he sat in his Bentley, staring at the unassuming medical building and trying to remember how to breathe like a normal human being.

He was going to see his baby.

Maybe.

Probably.

The appointment was at ten weeks, which meant there should be something visible, something real.

If she even let him in the room.

He’d sent flowers—six arrangements over the past week. Each one had been rejected and returned by an apologetic delivery person who reported that “the lady said absolutely not.”

He’d tried calling: voicemail.

Texting: one‑word responses when she replied at all.

He’d even shown up at her apartment—only to have her grandmother open the door, look at him with heartbreaking disappointment, and say, “She’ll talk to you when she’s ready. Not before.”

So he’d waited. Done his work. Sat through meetings.

And thought about Natalie approximately every thirty seconds.

The passenger door opened, making him jump.

Natalie slid in, looking wary.

“You’re early,” she said.

“You’re earlier,” he said. “I’ve been here thirteen minutes.”

“I’ve been in the waiting room for twenty,” she said.

They stared at each other.

His brain helpfully short‑circuited at the sight of her—hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, wearing jeans and a soft sweater that made her look impossibly young. Beautiful. Tired.

“You look exhausted,” he blurted.

“Wow,” she said. “Every woman’s dream compliment.”

But there was the ghost of a smile on her lips.

“You try growing a human while translating German contract law,” she added. “It’s a vibe.”

“You’re still working?” he asked.

“Bills don’t pay themselves,” she said. “And before you offer—” She held up a hand. “I don’t want your money.”

“I wasn’t going to offer money,” he said. “I was going to offer to reduce your workload. You shouldn’t be stressed right now.”

“I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” she said. “Women work through pregnancies all the time.”

“Not women who collapsed from exhaustion a week ago,” he said.

Her jaw set in a familiar stubborn line.

“Are we going to fight in your car,” she asked, “or are we going to this appointment?”

“Appointment,” he said immediately. “Definitely appointment.”

He got out and circled the car to open her door. She rolled her eyes but accepted the gesture.

The waiting room was cheerful—soft colors, parenting magazines, a play area with toys.

Carter felt massively out of place in his three‑piece suit.

He sat next to Natalie, hyperaware of the three inches of space between them.

She was reading a magazine about nursery decor with intense focus, like it contained national secrets.

“Natalie Spencer?” A nurse appeared with a clipboard.

They stood at the same time.

Carter followed Natalie down a hallway into an exam room, and suddenly reality hit him with the force of a freight train.

This was happening.

There was going to be a baby.

“First time Dad?” the nurse asked kindly, probably noticing his death grip on the chair.

“That obvious?” he asked.

“Honey, you look like you’re about to pass out,” she said. “It’s very sweet. Don’t worry. The fainting is usually Mom’s job.”

Natalie snorted from the exam table.

“I already fainted once,” she said. “I’m good.”

“That’s the spirit,” the nurse replied.

She took Natalie’s vitals and asked a series of questions that made Carter’s ears burn—apparently pregnancy involved a lot of very personal details.

“Dr. Chen will be in shortly,” the nurse said at last. “Dad, there’s water in the corner if you need it.”

When she left, silence descended.

Carter sat.

Natalie lay back on the table.

They both stared at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” Carter said finally. “For everything. The investigation. The doubt. The way I handled all of it.”

“I know,” Natalie said softly. “I got your seventeen apology texts. And the flowers. All six arrangements.”

“You sent them back,” he murmured.

“I was angry,” she said. “Still am. A little.”

She turned her head to look at him.

“But I understand why you did it,” she added. “Doesn’t mean I like it. But I understand.”

“I should have trusted you,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed calmly. “You should have.”

There was no anger in her voice—just honesty.

“You’d been lied to,” she added. “I get why trust is hard.”

Carter stood and moved closer to the exam table—close enough to touch, but not touching.

“That night,” he said quietly. “What I said about it being… everything. I meant it. You weren’t just some woman at a gala. You were…”

He exhaled.

“You were everything,” he finished.

Natalie’s eyes shimmered.

“Then why couldn’t you believe me?” she asked.

“Because I’m an idiot with trust issues,” he said honestly. “Because I have a company to protect and siblings who depend on me and a lifelong habit of pretending nothing can hurt me. Because that night scared me. What I felt for you scared me. And when you disappeared—”

“You mean when your father died,” she corrected gently.

“Yes,” he said. “But I didn’t know how to find you. I woke up and you were gone. And I thought… I thought maybe it had meant less to you.”

“It didn’t,” she said.

Before either of them could say more, the exam room door opened.

“Hello,” a cheerful woman in her fifties said. “You must be the expectant parents. I’m Dr. Chen. Let’s see this baby, shall we?”

She squeezed gel onto Natalie’s stomach and pressed the ultrasound wand against her skin.

The screen flickered to life, showing abstract shapes that meant nothing to Carter.

Then Dr. Chen adjusted the angle.

There.

A tiny form. So small. With a head, a curled body, little limb buds.

“There’s your baby,” Dr. Chen said warmly. “Measuring right on track for ten weeks. And there’s the heartbeat.”

A sound filled the room—rapid, rhythmic, beautiful. Like galloping horses. Like rain on pavement. Like every song he’d ever loved rolled into one.

Carter couldn’t breathe.

“That’s…” His voice broke. “That’s our baby.”

“That’s our baby,” Natalie whispered, tears sliding down her temples.

He reached for her hand without thinking and she squeezed back.

Something locked tight in his chest for years finally cracked open.

“Everything looks healthy,” Dr. Chen said, taking measurements and explaining things Carter barely processed. “I’ll print some pictures for you. Dad, you can let go of Mom’s hand now if you want.”

“I really don’t,” he said honestly.

Natalie laughed through her tears.

“Then don’t,” she murmured.

So he didn’t.

He held her hand through the rest of the exam, through Dr. Chen’s instructions about vitamins and future appointments and what to watch for.

He only let go when Natalie needed to schedule her next visit.

Outside in the cool afternoon air, they stood by his car in awkward silence.

“So,” Natalie said finally. “That was… something.”

Carter looked down at the ultrasound photo in his hand—the grainy black‑and‑white image that somehow contained an entire future.

“Can I take you to dinner?” he asked. “Just dinner. Nothing else. I promise.”

She studied him.

“You promise?” she asked.

“Scout’s honor,” he said.

“Were you even a Scout?” she asked.

“No,” he admitted. “But I promise anyway.”

She almost smiled.

“One dinner,” she said. “But I pick the place. And if you investigate the restaurant beforehand, I’m leaving.”

“Deal,” he said.

As they rode to the tiny Thai place she directed him to—the kind with plastic chairs and fluorescent lighting that served the best pad Thai Carter had ever tasted—he had a quiet realization.

He was falling for her again.

Still.

Always.

And this time, he wasn’t going to let fear make him lose her.

PART THREE – FAMILY, SECRETS, AND SCANDAL

The Thai restaurant was packed, noisy, and about as far from Carter’s usual haunts as possible while still being in New York City.

He loved it.

Or maybe he just loved watching Natalie demolish a plate of pad Thai with the kind of enthusiasm that made him smile like an idiot.

“What?” she asked, catching him staring.

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just… really nice seeing you enjoy a meal.”

“First one all week that hasn’t made me want to cry,” she said cheerfully. “Pregnancy cravings are weird. Yesterday I wanted pickles and ice cream—together. It was confusing on a spiritual level.”

Carter laughed. Actually laughed.

“Did you actually eat pickles with ice cream?” he asked.

“Vanilla ice cream with dill pickle chips,” she said solemnly. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Although based on your face right now, you’re definitely knocking it.”

“I’m just… processing,” he said.

“Process faster,” she ordered. “Your spring rolls are getting cold.”

They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes.

The restaurant buzzed around them—families talking, music playing, the sizzle of woks from the kitchen.

It was so normal. So ordinary.

It felt perfect.

“Can I ask you something?” Natalie said suddenly.

“Anything,” he said.

“Your siblings—” she began. “You mentioned them before. How old are they?”

He set down his chopsticks.

“Benjamin’s nineteen,” he said. “He’s a sophomore at Columbia. Wants to be an architect. Jasmine’s sixteen. Junior in high school. Currently convinced she’s going to be a marine biologist despite being terrified of fish.”

Natalie smiled.

“She’s afraid of fish but wants to study them?” she asked.

“She watched a documentary about coral reefs and decided it was her calling,” he said. “The fish thing is a work in progress.”

His expression softened.

“They’re good kids,” he added. “They lost their mom young. Car accident. Dad raised them mostly alone until…”

“Until he died,” Natalie said gently.

“Yeah,” he said. “Heart attack. Sudden. We got to the hospital in time to say goodbye, but barely. After that, everything changed. I went from just being the CEO to being guardian overnight.”

“That must have been terrifying,” she said.

“Still is, most days,” he admitted. “I have no idea what I’m doing. Ben’s easy—just make sure he doesn’t blow his entire meal plan on pizza. Jasmine’s harder. She’s angry. She lost both parents before she could drive. She takes it out on me more than anyone.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” Natalie said.

“She doesn’t think so,” he replied. “Called me an emotionally constipated control freak last week.”

“Was she wrong?” Natalie asked.

Her question pulled a laugh out of him.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “She was completely right, which is why it stung.”

“I like her already,” Natalie said.

“She’d probably like you, too,” he said. “Once she got past being suspicious of any woman in my life.”

“Suspicious,” Natalie repeated.

“After Vanessa, after the press, they’ve seen how some people act around us,” he said. “They’re protective. Maybe a little too much.”

He reached across the table, hesitated, then took her hand anyway.

“They’ll be cautious,” he said. “But once they meet you, really meet you, they’ll see what I see.”

“Which is?” she asked softly.

“Someone genuine,” he said. “Someone honest. Someone strong enough to stand outside my building all day just to tell me the truth, even though I gave you every reason not to bother.”

Natalie looked down at their joined hands.

“You really need to stop saying things like that,” she said. “It makes it hard to stay mad at you.”

“You can stay a little mad,” he said. “I deserve it. But maybe also give me a chance to prove I’m not completely terrible.”

“One chance,” she said. “Mess it up and I’m done.”

“One chance,” he echoed. “I can work with that.”

Dinner turned into a habit.

Checkups turned into a schedule.

They talked about everything—the baby, her work, his never‑ending meetings, Gran’s insistence on teaching the baby Portuguese.

He started leaving meetings early for appointments in Brooklyn, baffling his board.

She started texting him sonogram photos and complaints about nausea.

He started reading books about pregnancy.

He also started worrying about the inevitable collision between Natalie and his family.

He didn’t have to wait long.

When the first tabloid article hit, Natalie woke up to seventeen missed calls and a text from Charlotte that said simply: “I’m so sorry.”

Her stomach dropped.

That was never a good sign.

She opened a news app and wished she hadn’t.

Translator Claims Pregnancy with Billionaire CEO.

The headline screamed at her in bold letters, accompanied by a grainy photo of her leaving Sullivan Tower.

Another article followed.

Gold Digger or Genuine? The Woman Who Says She’s Carrying Sullivan’s Baby.

And another.

After Past Scandal, Has Carter Sullivan Been Fooled Again?

The articles were brutal.

They dissected her modest background, her mother’s history, her finances. They compared her to Vanessa, implied she was after money, questioned the timing of her “convenient” pregnancy.

One particularly vicious piece quoted “anonymous sources” who claimed she’d trapped Carter on purpose.

Natalie’s hands shook as she scrolled.

Her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—unknown numbers, emails from clients cancelling contracts, social media notifications she was too afraid to open.

“Gran,” she called, her voice breaking. “Gran!”

Her grandmother appeared in the doorway, took one look at her face, and immediately pulled her into a hug.

“What happened?” Gran demanded.

“Someone leaked it,” Natalie whispered. “Everything. The pregnancy, Carter… all of it. My career is over.”

By noon, she’d lost four clients.

By evening, she’d lost eight more.

The translation world was small. Reputation mattered.

No one wanted to be associated with a tabloid scandal.

Her phone rang.

“Did you see?” she asked without preamble when she answered.

“I saw,” Carter said. “I’m so sorry. I have lawyers working on it. We’ll find out who leaked it. We’ll—”

“It doesn’t matter who leaked it,” she said, pacing her tiny bedroom. “The damage is done. You can’t make people unread those articles.”

“I’ll fix this,” he insisted. “I promise.”

“How?” she demanded. “You can’t control what people think. You can’t put my name back in some box and pretend this didn’t happen.”

There was a knock at her front door.

“Someone’s here,” she said. “I have to go.”

She hung up before he could answer.

The “someone” at the door was Charlotte.

She looked like she’d been crying.

That should have been Natalie’s first clue.

“I’m so sorry,” Charlotte said immediately, stepping inside. “I never thought it would blow up like this. I thought—”

“Wait,” Natalie said, her blood running cold. “You thought what?”

She stared.

“Charlotte,” she whispered. “What did you do?”

Charlotte’s face crumpled.

“I told someone,” she said. “Just one person. I thought they’d keep it quiet. I didn’t think they’d go to the press.”

“You told someone,” Natalie repeated. “About my pregnancy. About Carter.”

“Not like that,” Charlotte protested. “I just… I needed to talk to somebody. I was scared for you.”

“Why?” Natalie demanded. “Why would you do that?”

Charlotte’s expression shifted—guilt morphing into something harder.

“Because you don’t belong with him,” she said. “You know you don’t. He’s Carter Sullivan. He needs someone from his world. Someone who understands the pressure, the expectations—”

“Someone like you,” Natalie said slowly.

The realization hit like a freight train.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “You’re in love with him.”

“Don’t make it sound awful,” Charlotte snapped. “I’ve known Carter since we were kids. We grew up together. Our families vacation together in the Hamptons. We make sense. And then you show up at one gala and suddenly he can’t see anyone else.”

Her eyes flashed.

“Do you know how that feels?” she demanded. “To watch the man you’ve loved for years fall for someone who doesn’t even belong in his world?”

“So you destroyed my reputation,” Natalie said quietly. “You tanked my career. All because you were jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Charlotte insisted. “I’m realistic. You’re a translator from Brooklyn who lives with her grandmother. He’s a billionaire CEO. What kind of life do you think you’ll have together? You’ll always be the girl who got pregnant. That baby will always be the ‘mistake’ that forced his hand. Is that what you want for your child?”

Each word was a knife.

Precise.

Devastating.

Because a small, frightened part of Natalie wondered if there was truth in it.

“Get out,” Natalie said, her voice eerily calm.

“Nat, I’m trying to help—”

“You’re trying to help yourself,” Natalie said. “You betrayed me. You destroyed my livelihood. For what? Carter doesn’t love you, Charlotte. He never has. And after this, he never will.”

Charlotte went pale.

“You don’t know that,” she whispered.

“I know he values loyalty,” Natalie said. “And you just proved you don’t have any. We’re done. Don’t call. Don’t text. Don’t come back.”

“Natalie—”

“I said,” she repeated, “get out.”

Charlotte left.

Natalie closed the door with shaking hands.

Then she slid down to the floor and finally let herself fall apart.

Carter found out about Charlotte’s involvement through his investigator’s report at midnight.

He called Natalie immediately.

Voicemail.

He made a decision the old version of himself would have avoided.

He got in his car and went to Brooklyn.

Gran answered the door in a bathrobe, took one look at his face, and stepped aside.

“She’s in her room,” she said. “Go easy. It’s been a day.”

Natalie was curled on her bed, laptop open, surrounded by tissues.

She looked up when he entered, devastation written all over her face.

“Charlotte,” he said quietly.

“You know,” she replied.

“I know,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m so sorry. If I’d had any idea—”

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “She’s been in love with you for years, apparently. I just never saw it.”

She laughed bitterly.

“Some best friend I am,” she added.

“You couldn’t have known,” he said.

“Couldn’t I?” she asked. “She was always a little… intense when we talked about relationships. I thought she was just being protective. Turns out she was jealous.”

She closed her laptop.

“I lost twelve clients today,” she said. “Twelve. That’s more than half my regular work. I don’t know how I’m going to pay rent, let alone prepare for a baby.”

“Let me help,” he said immediately.

“No,” she said.

“Natalie—”

“I said no,” she repeated, her voice firm. “I won’t be the woman who needs to be rescued, who takes money from the father of her baby because she can’t support herself. That’s exactly what everyone says I am. I won’t prove them right.”

“No one—”

“Everyone thinks it,” she said. “The articles, the comments, the messages I’ve been getting—they all say the same thing. That I’m a gold digger who got pregnant on purpose to trap you. If I take your money now, I’m just confirming their worst assumptions.”

He wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her he’d take care of everything. That money didn’t matter.

But he could see the stubborn set of her jaw, the fierce independence in her eyes.

He loved that about her.

He wasn’t going to trample it.

“Then let me fix the media,” he said instead. “I’ll hold a press conference. I’ll set the record straight. I’ll explain that Charlotte leaked false information.”

“So you look like you’re defending your ‘baby mama’?” she asked tiredly. “That’ll go well.”

“I don’t care how it looks,” he said.

“Well, I do,” she replied. “I care that your mother already thinks I’m after your money. That your siblings are wary. That everyone in your world expects me to mess up.”

“My siblings aren’t wary anymore,” he said. “Ben texts me constantly asking how you are. Jasmine wants to know if the baby is a girl so she can teach her about ocean life.”

Natalie blinked.

“Really?” she asked.

“Really,” he said. “They like you. They respect you. You stood up to my mother. You refused money. They know who you are.”

His phone rang.

Marcus.

“What?” Carter answered.

“Sir, you need to see the news,” Marcus said. “Right now.”

Carter pulled out his phone and opened the article.

His blood ran cold.

Victoria Sullivan Offers Translator $500,000 to Disappear.

“Oh no,” Natalie breathed, reading over his shoulder. “She didn’t.”

The article described an alleged meeting where his mother had offered Natalie money to leave and never contact him again.

“You know that didn’t happen,” he said immediately.

“No,” Natalie agreed. “She threatened me with a prenup once, but that’s different.”

His phone buzzed again.

His mother.

“Mother,” he said.

“I never offered her money,” Victoria said without preamble. “Someone’s spreading lies. First Charlotte leaks the pregnancy, now this. Carter, someone is trying to hurt all of us.”

The next morning, Victoria Sullivan showed up at Natalie’s apartment without warning.

Gran let her in, then crossed her arms and did not leave the room.

“Miss Spencer,” Victoria said, immaculate as ever in a designer suit. “We need to talk about the article claiming I offered you money.”

“I told the press you never said that,” Natalie said tiredly. “They printed it anyway.”

“I didn’t come to discuss false stories,” Victoria said. She set her expensive purse on the table. “I came to make an actual offer.”

Natalie’s heart sank.

“Mrs. Sullivan—”

“Five hundred thousand dollars,” Victoria said crisply. “To leave. Quietly. To give Carter space to focus on his family and his business without… distractions.”

The word “distractions” hit like a slap.

Natalie looked at the envelope, then at Victoria, then at Gran—who looked ready to throw the envelope out the window.

“No,” Natalie said.

“Be reasonable,” Victoria replied. “That’s more money than you’ll make in ten years translating contracts. You could move anywhere in the United States. Start fresh. Raise your child comfortably.”

“Without a father,” Natalie said.

“If it is his child,” Victoria retorted. “We don’t have proof yet.”

“Then wait for the DNA test,” Natalie said. “But I’m not taking your money.”

“Why not?” Victoria demanded. “Pride?”

“Because you want me to tell my child their father didn’t want them,” Natalie said, standing. “That I took money to disappear. What kind of mother would that make me?”

“A practical one,” Victoria said. “Pride doesn’t pay rent.”

“I grew up without parents,” Natalie said. “My mother died. My father was never around. Do you know what that does to a kid? You spend your life wondering if you’re worth loving. Wondering what’s wrong with you that made them leave. I won’t do that to my baby. Not for any amount of money.”

Victoria’s expression flickered—something almost like respect—then smoothed back into coolness.

“My son deserves better than this,” she said sharply. “Better than you.”

“Then let him decide that,” Natalie replied. “You don’t get to decide for him.”

Victoria left in a swish of tailored fabric.

Natalie collapsed onto the couch.

Gran sat beside her and pulled her close.

“That woman,” Gran muttered. “Needs to learn some manners.”

“She’s scared,” Natalie said quietly. “She already lost her husband. She’s terrified of losing her son.”

“That doesn’t give her the right to treat you like that,” Gran said.

“No,” Natalie agreed. “But it makes her human.”

Her phone rang.

Carter.

“My mother just left, didn’t she?” he said.

“How’d you know?” she asked.

“Because she just called me furious that you refused her money,” he said. “Natalie, I’m so sorry. I had no idea—”

“It’s fine,” she said.

“It’s not fine,” he insisted. “She had no right to—”

“Carter, stop,” she said, exhaustion bleeding through her voice. “Your mom is protective. I get it. But I’m tired. I’m tired of defending myself. Tired of proving I’m not after your money when all I wanted was to tell you about our baby.”

“I know,” he said.

“Maybe she’s right,” Natalie said quietly. “Maybe I don’t belong in your world.”

“Don’t say that,” he protested.

“Why not?” she asked. “It’s true. I’m a translator from Brooklyn. You’re a billionaire. Your mother offers me money to disappear. The press calls me a gold digger. My best friend betrayed me out of jealousy. What kind of life is that for a kid?”

“A life with parents who love them,” he said. “That’s what matters.”

“Is it?” she whispered. “Because right now it feels like loving you is the worst decision I ever made.”

Silence.

“You… love me?” he asked.

The words were out before she could stop them.

“I have to go,” she said, panicking. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Natalie, wait—”

She hung up.

She dropped the phone like it burned and tried very hard not to think about the truth she’d just accidentally confessed.

The DNA results came back three days later.

Carter was at her apartment within an hour, envelope in hand, Benjamin and Jasmine trailing behind him.

“What are they doing here?” Natalie asked, eyeing the teenagers.

“We want to be here,” Benjamin said. “When you open it.”

“As a family,” Jasmine added. “If that’s okay.”

Despite everything, Natalie’s chest warmed.

“It’s okay,” she said.

They gathered in the tiny living room—Gran in her armchair, the kids on the couch, Natalie and Carter side by side.

Carter held the envelope like it contained a bomb.

“Whatever it says,” he began, “I want you to know—”

“Just open it,” Natalie said. “Please.”

He did.

He read the paper.

Read it again.

Then looked up at her, eyes shining.

“Positive,” he said hoarsely. “Ninety‑nine point nine percent probability.”

He swallowed.

“She’s mine,” he whispered.

Relief crashed over Natalie.

She’d known, of course.

But having proof, having something no article or rumor could touch, felt like vindication.

“Congratulations,” she said softly. “You’re going to be a father.”

“We’re going to be parents,” he corrected.

He looked over at his siblings.

“You’re going to be an uncle and an aunt.”

Benjamin whooped.

Jasmine grinned.

Then they were all hugging—this strange, mismatched little group in a Brooklyn living room.

Afterward, Carter pulled out his phone and brought up a document.

“I need to show you something,” he said.

He handed it to her.

“This is the complete investigation report,” he said. “I want you to read it. All of it.”

“Carter…” she protested.

“I need you to see what I saw,” he insisted. “What made me realize how wrong I’d been.”

She read.

It wasn’t just facts. It was her life in bullet points and bank statements and interviews with people who knew her.

Clients describing her as “professional and kind” and “the translator I trust most.” Neighbors talking about how she cared for her grandmother. Old teachers calling her “fiercely determined.” Even social media posts—her and Charlotte at thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Sleepovers. Study sessions. College graduation.

At the end, there was a note in Carter’s voice.

“Subject displays consistent pattern of honesty, integrity, and independence. No evidence of deceptive intent. Conclusion: Natalie Spencer is exactly who she appears to be—a good person doing her best in difficult circumstances.”

“You wrote this,” she said, looking up.

“I wrote the conclusion,” he said. “After reading everything. After realizing I’d been an idiot to doubt you for even a second.”

He knelt in front of her.

“Natalie,” he said. “I’m sorry. For the investigation. For my mother. For every moment you felt like you had to prove yourself. You never should have had to prove anything. I should have believed you.”

“You were protecting yourself,” she said.

“I was protecting myself from being hurt again,” he said. “From being vulnerable.”

He took her hands.

“But you know what?” he said. “Being hurt is worth it if it means having you in my life. Being vulnerable is worth it if it means being with you.”

His voice dropped.

“Natalie,” he said. “I love you.”

The words tumbled out—raw, unpolished, completely sincere.

“I’ve loved you since that first night,” he said. “Maybe since the first moment I saw you across that ballroom, looking like you wanted to be anywhere else. I love your strength and your stubbornness and the way you stand up to my mother. I love that you refused her money even though you needed it. I love that you’re terrified and doing this anyway.”

Natalie’s vision blurred.

“I’m so scared,” she whispered.

“Me too,” he said. “But I’m more scared of losing you. Of our child growing up without both of us. Of spending the rest of my life wondering ‘what if.’”

He cupped her face.

“I need you to tell me one thing,” he said. “On the phone… you said you loved me. Did you mean it?”

She looked at him.

At this brilliant, damaged man who was trying so hard.

At the father of her child.

At the only person who had ever made her feel both completely terrified and completely safe.

“I love you,” she said. “God help me, I love you so much it scares me.”

The kiss was inevitable.

It was also perfect.

When they finally broke apart, Benjamin was covering Jasmine’s eyes.

“Gross,” Jasmine said. But she was smiling.

“Necessary,” Carter corrected.

He stood, pulling Natalie up with him.

“I need to fix this,” he said. “The press. Charlotte’s lies. My mother’s interference. All of it. Will you let me?”

“I don’t want you to fix me,” she said. “I want you to be with me.”

“Then be with me,” he said. “Move in with me. Let me support you while you rebuild your career. Let me be there for doctor appointments and midnight cravings and everything in between. Let me be your partner.”

She looked at Gran, who nodded.

At Benjamin and Jasmine, who looked hopeful.

At Carter, who looked like a man offering her his whole heart.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Yes. Let’s do this.”

PART FOUR – HOME, A DAUGHTER, AND HAPPILY EVER AFTER

Moving into Carter’s penthouse was like stepping into a different universe.

Her entire Brooklyn apartment could fit inside the master bedroom. The guest room closet was bigger than her old bedroom. The kitchen had appliances she’d never seen in real life.

“This is insane,” she muttered on her third morning there, staring at the espresso machine. “Who needs a coffee maker that costs more than a used car?”

“Someone who drinks a lot of coffee,” Carter said, coming up behind her and pressing a series of buttons.

The machine whirred to life.

“Also, it makes excellent hot chocolate. Which you like.”

“I like the hot chocolate from the bodega on the corner,” she said.

“This is better,” he said. “Trust me.”

He handed her a mug topped with foam.

She took a cautious sip.

“I hate that you’re right,” she muttered.

“Get used to it,” he said. “I’m right about most things.”

“And so humble,” she replied.

He grinned.

They were still figuring out how to live together. Still learning each other’s rhythms. Still navigating the weird space between “we’re having a baby” and “we’re a couple.”

Some things were easy.

Like the way she started falling asleep on the couch halfway through movies and waking up with a blanket over her and Carter’s arm around her waist.

Or the way he reflexively reached for her hand in elevators.

Or how he started talking to her belly the moment the books told him the baby could hear.

“Hey, little one,” he would murmur, crouching down. “It’s your dad. We had a board meeting today. It was terrible. Don’t worry, I survived.”

Her favorite new memory came one evening when she was trying—and failing—to cook her grandmother’s Portuguese chicken stew.

“This doesn’t look right,” she said, frowning into the pot.

“Is it supposed to be that color?” Carter asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Maybe I added too much paprika.”

“How much did the recipe call for?” he asked.

“A teaspoon,” she said.

“How much did you add?” he asked.

“Two tablespoons,” she said.

He stared.

“That’s not ‘a little more,’” he said. “That’s six times more.”

“Well, the recipe should be clearer,” she said.

He started laughing.

“You just can’t measure,” he said.

She turned to glare at him and found him looking at her with so much affection it stole her breath.

“What?” she demanded.

“You’re standing in my ridiculously fancy kitchen covered in paprika, arguing with me about measurements while trying to make your grandmother’s stew,” he said. “And I’ve never been happier.”

“You’re weird,” she said.

“Probably,” he admitted. “But I’m your weird.”

He pulled her close—careful of her growing belly.

“Dance with me,” he said.

“There’s no music,” she protested.

“So?” he said. He pulled out his phone and hit play.

Frank Sinatra’s voice drifted through the speakers.

They swayed together on the kitchen tiles, his hand warm on her back, her cheek resting against his shoulder.

“I love you,” he murmured into her hair.

“I love you too,” she whispered. “Even though you mocked my cooking.”

“I wasn’t mocking,” he said. “I was observing. Affectionately.”

“Liar,” she said.

He spun her gently, and she laughed.

Then she froze.

“Oh,” she gasped.

“What?” he demanded instantly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “I just—” She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her belly. “Wait. Don’t move.”

They stood perfectly still.

And then there it was.

A flutter.

Soft. Like butterfly wings.

“Was that…?” he whispered.

“She’s moving,” Natalie said, her voice shaking. “The baby’s moving.”

His eyes went wide.

“That was her,” he said. “Our baby.”

He dropped to his knees, hands cradling her belly.

“Hey there, little one,” he whispered. “That’s quite the kick. You’re going to be a soccer player, aren’t you?”

Another flutter.

He laughed—a sound of pure, unfiltered joy—and rested his forehead against her stomach.

“I’m your dad,” he said softly. “I already love you more than I ever thought possible. You and your mom—you’re my whole world.”

Natalie’s tears fell freely now, one hand tangled in his hair, the other resting over his.

This moment—this perfect, impossible moment—felt like a promise.

At twenty weeks, they had the anatomy scan.

Natalie was terrified.

“What if something’s wrong?” she asked for the seventeenth time that morning.

“Then we’ll deal with it together,” Carter said, squeezing her hand. “But nothing is going to be wrong.”

“You don’t know that,” she said.

“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t. But I know that worrying won’t change anything. And I know that whatever happens, we face it as a team.”

The ultrasound technician moved the wand across her rounded belly.

“There’s the head,” she narrated. “Arms. Legs. Spine looks good. Four‑chamber heart, all working beautifully.”

Natalie’s relief was so intense she started crying.

“Would you like to know the sex?” the tech asked.

They looked at each other.

They’d agreed to find out.

“Do you?” she asked.

“I think,” he said, “that I want to know everything about them. Every detail. Every possibility. So yes, please.”

The technician adjusted the angle.

“Well,” she said, “your daughter is being very cooperative today.”

“Daughter,” Natalie repeated.

“We’re having a girl,” Carter whispered.

He said it again in the car afterward.

“A girl,” he murmured, staring at the ultrasound photo. “We’re having a girl.”

“You already have a girl,” Natalie pointed out. “Jasmine.”

“That’s different,” he said. “I’m her guardian. I love her like crazy. But this… this is…” He shook his head. “This is our daughter.”

Back at the apartment, he called everyone.

Benjamin yelled loud enough for Natalie to hear from across the room. Jasmine demanded to know if she could paint the nursery ocean‑themed.

Even Victoria sounded moved.

“A granddaughter,” she said. “My first granddaughter.”

That evening, they lay in bed with Carter’s hand resting on Natalie’s belly.

“What should we name her?” he asked.

“Something strong,” Natalie said. “Something beautiful.”

“Like her mother,” he said.

She rolled her eyes.

“You’re very smooth,” she told him.

“I’m sincere,” he said. “There’s a difference.”

He propped himself on one elbow.

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met,” he said. “You collapsed on my doorstep and instead of asking for anything, you just wanted me to know about our daughter. You stood up to my mother. You refused money. You rebuilt your career from nothing.”

“I’m just doing what I have to do,” she said.

“That’s what makes it extraordinary,” he replied.

He hesitated.

“I want to marry you,” he blurted.

She blinked.

“That’s… not exactly subtle,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “And that was not how I planned to say it. I’m not officially proposing. Not yet. When I do, it’ll be better than this.”

He leaned closer.

“But I needed you to know,” he said. “This isn’t obligation. It’s choice. Every day, I choose you.”

The kiss that followed was different from the hesitant ones before.

Slower.

Deeper.

Full of promise.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard.

“Carter,” she whispered. “I want…”

“Tell me,” he said.

“You,” she said. “I want you. No more holding back. No more tiptoeing. Just… us.”

Something bright and fierce lit in his eyes.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “The doctor said—”

“The doctor said it’s safe,” she said. “And I’ve been sure for weeks. I’m just tired of waiting.”

His answer was another kiss.

He was as careful with her as he’d been that first night, but there was no hesitation now. No doubt.

Just love.

Later, wrapped in his arms with their daughter kicking gently between them, Natalie felt peace settle into her bones.

No regrets.

Only one thought.

I should have let myself have this sooner.

At thirty‑seven weeks, Natalie was officially done with being pregnant.

“I’m a whale,” she complained, struggling to get up from the couch. “A very tired whale.”

“You’re beautiful,” Carter said.

“I’m enormous,” she insisted.

“Beautifully enormous,” he corrected.

“If you don’t stop talking,” she warned, “I’m going to throw a pillow at you.”

He wisely changed the subject.

“The hospital bag’s packed,” he said. “Again.”

“You keep adding things,” she pointed out. “We don’t need three going‑home outfits for her.”

“What if she spits up on the first one?” he demanded.

She smiled.

He was going to be such a good dad.

The doorbell rang.

Marcus appeared on the security tablet screen.

“Charlotte Whitmore is downstairs,” he said. “Should I send her away?”

Natalie’s stomach clenched.

She’d been avoiding Charlotte for months—ignoring calls, deleting messages.

“No,” she said after a beat. “Let her up.”

“Are you sure?” Carter asked.

“No,” she admitted. “But I’m tired of running from hard conversations.”

Charlotte looked older when she stepped into the living room.

Tired.

Smaller somehow.

“Thank you for seeing me,” she said.

“You have five minutes,” Natalie said, sitting carefully.

“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness,” Charlotte said. “What I did was awful. I was jealous and hurt and I tried to hurt you back. I can’t undo that. But I’ve been in therapy. And I’ve spent the last three months contacting every client you lost, every publication that ran those stories, telling them the truth.”

She held out an envelope.

“These are letters,” she said. “Apologies from clients. Retractions from websites. A statement I gave the press taking responsibility. I also set up a trust fund for your daughter. It’s in your name. You can refuse it, but I wanted to try to make something right.”

“Money doesn’t fix betrayal,” Natalie said quietly.

“I know,” Charlotte said. “Nothing does. Except time. And proving I’m not that person anymore. I don’t expect us to be best friends again. I don’t even expect you to like me. I just… I needed you to know I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

She turned to leave.

“Charlotte,” Natalie said.

Charlotte turned back, hope flickering.

“I’m not ready to forgive you,” Natalie said. “Maybe not for a long time.”

Charlotte nodded, accepting it.

“But,” Natalie added, “I appreciate that you’re trying to make it right. That takes courage.”

Charlotte’s smile was small and sad.

“I hope someday I can meet her,” she said. “Your daughter. And maybe show her that people can change.”

“Maybe,” Natalie said. “Someday.”

After she left, Carter pulled Natalie into a careful hug.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I think so,” she said. “It felt good to say what I needed to say. To not just forgive because it’s easier.”

“That’s my fierce woman,” he murmured. “My fiancée.”

“Yours?” she asked.

“Absolutely mine,” he said. “Which reminds me…”

He led her into the nursery.

The walls were painted in soft ocean colors. Jasmine had gone all out—a coral reef mural, tiny fish, sea turtles.

In the center of the room stood a white crib.

Inside it was a small box.

“What’s this?” Natalie asked.

“Open it,” he said.

Inside was a ring—simple and elegant, a diamond that caught the light like a star.

Beneath it, a letter.

She unfolded it.

“Natalie,” it began. “I’ve tried to write this seventeen times. Each time the words fall short. You changed everything. Before you, I was building an empire but not a life. You walked into that gala looking like you wanted to be anywhere else and I thought, finally—someone real.

You’ve stood up to me, to the press, to my mother. You refused money. You told me the truth even when it cost you. You gave me a daughter I didn’t know I needed.

I’m not proposing in this letter. That would be cowardly. I just need you to have this ring before she arrives. Before our world expands and we’re sleep‑deprived and covered in baby spit‑up. I need you to know I choose you today, tomorrow, every day. Not because you’re the mother of my child. Because you’re the love of my life.

– Carter”

She looked up.

He was on one knee.

“Natalie Marie Spencer,” he said, eyes bright. “You are fierce and stubborn and you make me work for every inch of trust. You call me out when I’m wrong. You make questionable Portuguese chicken stew and dance with me in the kitchen. You look at me like I’m more than a last name. You are my best friend, my partner, the mother of my daughter.”

He took her hand.

“I want to spend the rest of my life proving you were right to choose me,” he said. “Proving our story isn’t just about a baby. It’s about us. Will you marry me? Not because you have to. Not because it’s expected. Because you love me half as much as I love you. Because you can’t imagine waking up without me stealing the covers.”

“You’re the one who steals the covers,” she said, tears spilling over.

“Is that a yes?” he asked.

“That’s a ‘you’re an idiot who steals the covers,’” she said, laughing through her tears. “And yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

He slid the ring onto her finger and stood, kissing her as their daughter kicked between them like she was cheering.

“I love you,” she whispered against his mouth.

“I love you too,” he said. “Both of you. Always.”

Three days later, at 4:47 a.m.—the exact time Carter’s father had died—Emma Rose Sullivan came into the world.

Carter claimed it was a sign.

Natalie had never been so exhausted or so happy.

Emma had Natalie’s dark hair and Carter’s green eyes and a cry that could wake the entire floor.

“She’s perfect,” Carter breathed, cradling her like she was made of glass.

“She’s loud,” Natalie corrected, smiling.

Gran arrived first, crying and declaring Emma the most beautiful baby ever born.

Benjamin and Jasmine arrived next. Jasmine immediately started showing Emma pictures of coral reefs on her phone.

Victoria came last, carrying a massive teddy bear and looking more emotional than Natalie had ever seen her.

“She has your father’s eyes,” Victoria told Carter softly, touching Emma’s tiny hand. “And your mother’s spirit. We’re in trouble.”

Victoria actually laughed.

She kissed Emma’s forehead.

“Welcome to the family, little one,” she said. “We’re complicated. But we’re yours.”

That evening, when everyone had finally gone and Emma was asleep in her bassinet, Carter and Natalie lay in the hospital bed together.

“We did it,” Natalie whispered. “We made a person.”

“Best collaboration ever,” he said, kissing her temple. “Though the next one should probably be planned better.”

“Next one?” she squeaked. “I just had a baby.”

He laughed.

Emma made a little noise and he was up instantly, scooping her into his arms.

“Hey there, Emma Rose,” he murmured. “Having trouble sleeping? Me too. There’s too much to think about. Like how you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. How your mom is a superhero. How we’re going to teach you to be fierce and kind and exactly yourself.”

Natalie watched them—her daughter, her fiancé—and felt something in her settle.

This was her family.

Complicated.

Unexpected.

Perfect.

“I love you,” she said softly.

“Both of us?” Carter asked, looking up.

“All of you,” she said. “This whole messy, beautiful family we’ve somehow built.”

He grinned and climbed back into the bed, settling Emma between them.

“Our family,” he said.

As the sun rose over New York City, painting the hospital room in soft gold, Natalie looked at her daughter and the man who’d once run out of a hotel room and forgotten to leave his number.

She thought about the girl who’d spent nine hours standing outside Sullivan Tower.

About the receptionist who’d turned her away.

About the collapse, the investigation, the doubt, the DNA test.

The first heartbeat.

The first kick.

The proposal in the nursery.

Every twist and turn that had led here.

“This is it,” she thought. “This is the happily‑ever‑after I was too scared to want.”

This was home.

End of story.

If this emotional journey touched your heart, imagine reading it like a novel shared with a friend. Share it with someone who loves stories about messy, modern love in New York and families that don’t look perfect on paper but choose each other anyway.

Your support—your time, your reactions, your messages—always makes the difference.