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I spent three years as the perfect, silent wife to billionaire Ezequiel Sanford, enduring a marriage colder than the marble floors of our Manhattan mansion. The day I finally saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test was the same day my world burned down. I found Ezequiel at the hospital, but he wasn't there for me. He was cradling his ex-girlfriend, Alexa, with a gentleness he had never shown me, while my own father was being rushed into the ICU after a suicide attempt triggered by our family's bankruptcy. Instead of comfort, Ezequiel handed me divorce papers. He had checked a box that read "No Issue of Marriage," effectively erasing any claim I had to his legacy. He blackmailed me, promising to save my father's company only if I signed away every cent of alimony and walked away with nothing. When Alexa called him claiming an emergency, Ezequiel shoved me aside so violently I hit the sharp corner of his glass desk. As I collapsed to the floor, clutching my abdomen in sudden, searing pain, he didn't even look back. "Stop acting," he sneered, his voice dripping with disgust. "It's pathetic. I will never love you, Claudia, no matter how many times you fall down." He walked out to be with her, leaving me bleeding on his office carpet with the secret he had spent years trying to avoid. He thought I was a gold-digger faking a crisis, never realizing I was actually carrying the Sanford heir he claimed didn't exist. Now, I'm hiding in a private clinic while my husband's security team scours the city for me. My childhood friend just handed me a one-way ticket to Paris and a chance to restart the medical career I sacrificed for a lie. The money just hit my father's account. I'm signing the papers and disappearing. By the time Ezequiel realizes what he's lost, I'll be a world away, and he'll never even know my child's name.
Contents
Chapter 1 1
The fluorescent lights of the private hospital bathroom hummed with a low, irritating buzz that seemed to vibrate against Claudia Valentine's skull. She sat on the closed lid of the toilet, her hands gripping the edge of the porcelain so hard her knuckles had turned the color of bone.
On the counter, resting on a square of toilet paper, was the plastic stick.
It had been three minutes. The instructions said three minutes.
She didn't want to look. If she didn't look, the reality sitting in the test window didn't exist yet. If she didn't look, she was still just Claudia Valentine, the wife of Ezequiel Sanford, living a cold but predictable life.
Claudia forced her eyes open. She forced them to focus on the small display window.
One pink line. That was the control. That was normal.
Then, slowly, agonizingly, a second pink line ghosted into existence right next to it. It darkened with every second that ticked by on her watch.
Two lines.
A sound tried to escape her throat, a whimper or a gasp, but she slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle it. The air in the small room suddenly felt too thin, like all the oxygen had been sucked out by the ventilation fan.
Pregnant.
She was pregnant.
For three years, Claudia had navigated the frozen landscape of her marriage to Ezequiel. They slept in the same bed, but miles apart. They attended galas, his hand on the small of her back only when cameras were flashing, his touch burning and impersonal.
And now, this. A child. A Sanford heir.
Her hand trembled as she reached out and grabbed the stick. She couldn't leave it here. She couldn't let anyone see it. She shoved it deep into the inner zippered pocket of her purse, burying it beneath receipts and lipsticks.
Claudia stood up and faced the mirror. Her reflection looked pale, the dark circles under her eyes stark against her skin. She ran the tap, splashing freezing water onto her face, trying to shock her system back into functionality. She practiced the expression she had perfected over the last thousand days.
Chin up. Eyes blank. Lips pressed into a neutral line.
The mask of Mrs. Ezequiel Sanford.
She unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway. The hospital smell-antiseptic and floor wax-hit her, making her stomach roll. She wasn't sure if it was the nerves or the morning sickness kicking in early.
A nurse in blue scrubs rounded the corner, nearly colliding with her. She was walking fast, holding a tray of IV bags.
"Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Sanford," she said, breathless. She recognized Claudia. Everyone in this hospital recognized the Sanford name; Ezequiel's family practically built the west wing. "I'm so sorry, we have an emergency in the VIP section."
The nurse didn't wait for a response, rushing past her toward the end of the corridor.
Claudia's feet moved on their own accord. She shouldn't look. She should turn left, toward the elevators, and go to her car. But the nurse had headed toward the suite usually reserved for high-profile donors.
She walked softly, sticking close to the wall. At the corner, she stopped.
Mr. Sterling, Ezequiel's personal assistant, was standing guard outside Suite 402. He was checking his watch, his face etched with a mixture of boredom and stress. If Sterling was here, Ezequiel was here.
But why? Ezequiel was supposed to be in a board meeting at Sanford Tower.
The heavy oak door of the suite clicked open. Claudia pulled back, pressing her spine against the cold wall, peeking around the edge with just one eye.
Ezequiel stepped out.
Even from this distance, he was breathtaking. Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark suit tailored to perfection. But it wasn't his appearance that made her breath hitch. It was his posture.
He was leaning down, his arm wrapped protectively around a woman's waist.
Alexa Burris.
She looked fragile, her face pale, leaning into him as if he were the only thing keeping her upright. She was wearing a hospital gown with a cashmere cardigan thrown over it.
Ezequiel held a coat in his other hand-her coat. He draped it over her shoulders with a gentleness Claudia hadn't seen in three years. He murmured something to her, his head bent low, his lips brushing her temple.
Alexa looked up at him, her eyes wide and watery. She said something, and he nodded, tightening his hold on her.
A sharp, physical pain stabbed through Claudia's chest, radiating down to her stomach. Her hand flew to her abdomen, covering the secret she had just discovered.
He was with her.
The rumors were true. The tabloids, the whispers at the charity luncheons-they weren't just gossip. She was back. And he was with her, skipping work to care for her, holding her like she was precious glass.
Claudia's phone buzzed in her hand, startling her. She looked down. A text from her father, Burk.
Where are you? The bank is calling again.
She stared at the screen, the words blurring. Her father was drowning in debt, her husband was holding his first love in his arms, and she was standing in a hospital hallway with a positive pregnancy test burning a hole in her bag.
Claudia turned around and ran.
She took the staff exit, bursting out into the humid New York afternoon. She scrambled into her Audi, her hands shaking so badly it took three tries to get the key into the ignition.
She drove without thinking, the car navigating the streets of Manhattan on autopilot. She focused on breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Don't cry. Do not cry.
By the time she pulled into the driveway of the Sanford mansion on the Upper East Side, the sky had turned a bruised purple. A storm was coming.
Claudia walked into the foyer. The house was silent, vast, and empty.
Butler Jenkins, the head of the household staff, was waiting for her near the stairs. He was an older man who usually greeted her with a warm nod, but today his face was grave. He held a thick manila envelope in both hands.
"Madam," he said, his voice low. "Mr. Sanford requested I give this to you immediately upon your return."
He extended the envelope.
Claudia looked at it. It was heavy. On the back, sealed in red wax, was the emblem of the Sanford family legal team.
Her stomach dropped. She knew what this was. She had been dreading it, expecting it, but holding it felt like holding a live grenade.
"Thank you, Jenkins," she whispered.
She took the envelope and walked into the living room. She sat on the edge of the white sofa-Ezequiel hated clutter, so the room was always pristine-and tore open the seal.
A stack of papers slid out.
DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE AGREEMENT
The words were bold, black, and final.
Her vision swam. She forced herself to read. She needed to know the terms. She flipped through the pages, the legal jargon dry and cruel.
Irreconcilable differences.
Premarital agreement binding.
And then, on page four, a checkbox that had been firmly ticked with black ink:
No Issue of Marriage.
No children.
He was dissolving the marriage based on the fact that they had produced no heirs. He was cutting her loose. And because of the prenup her father had forced her to sign to secure the initial business merger, she would leave with nothing.
The front door opened.
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed on the marble floor. She smelled him before she saw him.
Ezequiel walked into the living room. He loosened his tie as he walked, his jacket already thrown over his arm.
The scent hit her instantly-the sharp, chemical tang of hospital disinfectant mixed with the sweet, floral cloying scent of Bluebells by Jo Malone.
Alexa's perfume.
Claudia gagged. It was a visceral reaction, the stress and the nausea colliding with the olfactory proof of his betrayal. She swallowed hard, forcing the bile down.
She shoved the pregnancy test deeper into her bag and slapped the divorce papers onto the coffee table.
Ezequiel stopped. He looked at the papers, then at her. His face was unreadable, his eyes cold and dark like the Hudson River in winter.
He pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and tossed it onto the agreement. It clattered against the table, a harsh sound in the quiet room.
"Sign it," he said.
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