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Chapter 1 She's Pregnant — Seven Weeks Seven years of marriage. And on the day Avalon Thornton found out she was pregnant, Emrys' first love was pregnant too. ...... Rivermark. Outside Reedham General Hospital. Avalon sat in the car, a lab report clutched in both hands. Two words printed in plain black ink: confirmed pregnancy. Seven years. She finally had a baby again. Seven weeks along. A heartbeat already audible. She thought Frederick would be overjoyed when heard. She reached for her phone — and then she went still. Because she saw him. Her gaze locked through the car window, fixed on the figures outside. Frederick was moving quietly, one hand guiding a woman toward the hospital entrance, shielding her in that low-key, deliberate way. One glance was all it took. She knew exactly who that woman was. Beatrice Whitmore. Top A-lister. Beatrice had more collaborations with Meritt Group than Avalon could count — and more photos taken with Frederick in a single year than Avalon had accumulated across seven years of marriage. After the wedding, Avalon had disappeared from public life entirely. Frederick made a point of sidestepping any mention of family whenever cameras were around. Their marriage was a secret kept close. Very few people knew she was Mrs. Merritt. Which meant the world had filled in the blank on its own. The way Frederick and Beatrice moved together, laughed together, showed up together at every major event — most people assumed Beatrice was the one wearing his ring. In the early days, it had bothered Avalon. She'd said something once. Frederick had been brief about it. Beatrice was an asset to the company. As Mrs. Merritt, Avalon was expected to conduct herself with grace, not pick fights over nothing. And she certainly wasn't to make an enemy of Beatrice over something trivial. Avalon had believed him. But seeing it with her own eyes still carved into something deep. Her phone buzzed. A gossip headline pushed through on an app. [Best Actress Beatrice Whitmore spotted in loose clothing — pregnancy rumors swirl.] Avalon's breath hitched. She pulled it back, forced herself to steady. Took a slow breath, then dialed Frederick. She kept her eyes on him the entire time — watched him guide Beatrice through the hospital doors and out of sight. The line connected. "Frederick—" she started. He cut her off before she could finish. "I'm busy." "I need to tell you something." Her voice stayed firm. "We'll talk when I get home." Then he hung up. Avalon stared at the screen. Her heart was going too fast. That hollow, rattled feeling she'd been trying to push down was getting harder to ignore. 'Stop it. Beatrice just works with Frederick. A lot. Going to the hospital doesn't mean anything. It's nothing.' She kept telling herself that, over and over, as the car pulled smoothly away toward home. ...... At eight o'clock, Frederick walked through the door. "You're back." Avalon crossed the room to him, the way she always did — took his briefcase and slipped his jacket off his shoulders without being asked. The scent of cologne reached her. Faint, warm. Not hers. She went quiet for a beat. The thought of Beatrice surfaced before she could stop it. "I'm going to shower," he said, and turned toward the stairs without waiting for a response. Flat. Impersonal. She'd long since stopped expecting anything else. She followed him up. Through the glass of the shower door, steam curling thick around him, she could see the lines of his body — broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, every movement unhurried. His shoulder blades shifted as the water ran down his back. Profile sharp, jaw strong, nose straight, mouth carrying that faint edge of cool that never fully left him. She'd seen this a thousand times. It still did something to her. She pulled her gaze away and bent down to gather his discarded clothes. Then his phone went off. It was in his jacket pocket. She grabbed it, meaning to pass it to him through the shower door — and as she pulled it out, something else came with it, fluttering to the floor. A folded piece of paper. Crisp white. Black print. Prenatal test results. Her hands weren't quite steady as she picked it up. She stood there for a moment, not opening it. Seven years. Hidden marriage or not, they'd been solid. He wouldn't do that to her. He wouldn't. Then she saw the name printed at the top of the form. Beatrice Whitmore. Two words. She read them twice. Her chest locked up. So the rumors hadn't been gossip. They'd been a warning. Beatrice was pregnant. The phone buzzed again in her hand. Then again. Messages stacked up on the screen. [Frederick, why aren't you picking up?] [Had the checkup today. Baby's doing great.] [My birthday's coming up. What are you getting me this time?] [Frederick. Happy ten years.] One after another. Avalon's fingers had gone white around the paper. She was not going to cry. She pressed down on it, hard — but her eyes were already wet, and a tear dropped straight onto the test results before she could catch it. Then she heard his footsteps. She wiped her face fast, shoved the phone and the paper back into the jacket pocket, and tried to arrange herself into something normal. She wasn't close to normal by the time Frederick walked back in, toweling his hair. "Did my phone ring?" Avalon turned away, moving toward the bathroom door. "Did it? I didn't notice." "Avalon." His voice stopped her. "You called earlier. What did you want?" He was turning the phone over in his hand, expression unreadable. Whatever he was feeling — if he was feeling anything — he'd buried it clean. She steadied herself and looked at him. "Nothing serious. I've just been coped up at home for a while and thought it might be nice to find some work to do." His brow dropped. "You're Mrs. Merritt. You know what that means and what it doesn't. Work is not a conversation we're going to have. Not now, not later. Drop it." No room for argument. That was Frederick. Avalon said nothing. A deep cramp moved through her abdomen, sharp enough to make her press her eyes shut for a second. He was already turning to leave. "Frederick." He paused, impatience bleeding into his expression. "What." "Can we talk about having a baby?" The words came out quiet. Measured. "If I had a child to focus on, I wouldn't be so restless." There was a test buried inside that question, and she knew it. "I'm too busy right now." Cold, clean, final. He walked out. Avalon stood there. The news she'd been holding all day — the confirmed pregnancy, the heartbeat, the seven weeks — none of it had anywhere to go now. The words had dried up in her throat. His phone rang again. She heard him pull it from his pocket in the hallway, his footsteps retreating down the stairs. She didn't stay. She didn't want him to look too closely at her face. She went back to the kitchen. The clay pot on the stove was still going, a seafood congee bubbling low and steady, little bursts of steam carrying that faint ocean smell through the room — and her stomach turned over hard. She pressed a hand to her mouth and held it down. It was Frederick's favorite. It had always been his. She didn't like it. Never had. But somewhere in seven years, she'd learned to sit across from him and eat it like was her favorite too, and mean it, because when Frederick was at that table, everything tasted like enough. Because her world had contracted down to one person, and that person was Frederick Merritt. She had poured everything into their marriage — absorbed every slight, swallowed every hurt, and kept going without complaint. On the rare occasions he softened toward her, even slightly, she'd taken that small warmth and called it sweetness, called it proof that they were real. That sweetness was the most dangerous thing she'd ever tasted. And the fact that they had no children had become its own kind of wound — a mark against her in the eyes of the Merritt family, a reason for the looks they gave her, that particular blend of pity and contempt she'd learned to recognize from across room. Every one of those looks cut exactly as intended. But she had been pregnant before. Once The baby just hadn't made it. The memories came in fragments, uninvited, pulling her somewhere far away from the kitchen and the bubling pot and the smell she couldn't stand. Avalon stood there, adrift in her own thoughts, and didn't come back for a long time. 2 Chapter 2Secret Marriage Frederick had already left. The congee was still sitting in the clay pot on the stove. Avalon knew better than to save it for him — Frederick never ate overnight food. She poured it out, wiped down the counter, and slipped quietly back to the bedroom. She'd burned her hand on the pot. The blister rose fast, angry red against her palm. Frederick hadn't noticed. He never did. When she walked back in, he'd already lost interest whatever trace of her had been there. He rolled onto his side and killed the light without a word. Avalon's chest tightened in that slow, familiar way — the kind of pain that didn't announce itself, just settled in and squezed. She'd told herself she was numb to it. To his coldness, to the way she couldn't seem to reach him no matter how hard she tried. But numb didn't mean healed. The ache still came, still pressed the air right out of her lungs. She lay there wide awake for long time. One in the morning. His phone buzzed. She heard him answer it immediately, his voice low and taut. "What? Okay. I'm on my way." He was already pulling on his jacket when she spoke. "Frederick — you're going out? At this hour?" Avalon." His voice dropped to a warning. "Stay out of my business. Understand?" The door slammed shut. She didn't move for a long moment. Then the tears came — the ones she'd been swallowing for God knows how long — and they didn't stop. And now here she was, staring at a prenatal test result she'd found in his coat pocket. Beatrice Whitmore's name printed at the top. Avalon went very still. Very quiet. Five years ago, she'd been pregnant too. It came out of nowhere, the way disasters always do. Frederick had come home from a business trip and pulled her straight to the bedroom. He'd been drinking. He was rough, barely conscious of what he was doing, and it went on until he was satisfied. She lost the baby. He thought it was her period. He showered and fell asleep. It was the housekeeper who got her to the hospital in time. Frederick didn't show up until the following evening. No comfort. No apology. Instead, he stood at her bedside and told her she should've known better — that a pregnant woman had no business indulging herself like that. She had no words. Just a cold that settled somewhere deep in her chest and never fully left. Afterward, he stayed for one whole day. One day, and Avalon had let herself believe it meant something. That maybe he did care, in some buried, inarticulate way. Then he was on a flight that same night. Business trip. Beatrice went with him — something about filming a promotional video for the company. Avalon swallowed every question she had. His mother came to visit her after she was discharged. Not to check on her. To blame her. Told her she couldn't even hold onto a baby — that she was useless. Avalon cried in private and texted Frederick. He never replied. On TV, every channel seemed to have footage of Frederick by Beatrice's side. After that, he was careful. Methodical. He made sure she never got pregnant again. Because he never wanted her child to begin with. That realization hit like ice water. It stripped something out of her she couldn't name. Seven years. Seven years of holding on, of trying of telling herself it would get better. And she still couldn't warm him. Still couldn't make him want her. All that love — hers alone, always hers alone. She wanted to cry. Nothing came. Then her phone buzzed. Kellan Calloway. Kellan was one of the top minds in artificial intelligence. So was she — or she used to be. "Ava." His voice was familiar, steady. "Are you sure you won't come back? We need you. The core technology — nobody else can do what you do." Her grip tightened around the phone. Her nails pressed into her palm. When she married Frederick, he'd made one thing clear: she was not to work. Mrs. Merritt didn't need a job. The idea embarrassed him. She'd loved him enough to walk away from everything. The day after graduation, she left her entire team behind. Kellan had reached out more times than she could count over the years, and every time she'd said no. For Frederick. She'd built this marriage on a kind of faith — maybe it had started as strategic match, a lucky bride for the Merritt family, nothing romantic about it. But she believed that time would change things. That if she gave enough, he'd eventually give something back. Now she understood. A marriage didn't survive one person's effort alone. And even when she'd been carrying his child, the person he cared about had always been someone else. "Kelan." Her voice was soft in the dark. "Give me three months. I still have some things to sort out here. Three months, and then I'll give you my answer." "That's great news." The relief in his voice was immediate. "I'll be waiting." Okay." She hung up and sat there looking out the floor-to-ceiling window at the night. Seven years. It was finally coming to an end. She didn't fall asleep until the early hours of the morning, slumped against the headboard, exhaustion pulling her under. ****** Six o'clock. Avalon startled awake, disoriented, her eyes swollen and raw. She reached for her phone — and saw the push notification. #Beatrice Whitmore Reportedly Pregnant — Merritt Group CEO Spotted by Her Side# She stared at it. Then clicked. It was already trending number one, tagged with a little fire icon. The video showed Frederick with his arms around a woman, her body wrapped in a black coat, one slender wrist visible — pale skin, and a bracelet. The timestamp matched exactly. The exact window when Frederick had walked out in the middle of the night. The comment section had done its work fast. That bracelet was Beatrice's — she wore it all the time. Someone had already traced it back to its origin. Thirty million dollars. Frederick had bought it at an overseas auction years ago. Avalon's whole body went cold. She knew that bracelet. It had a name: Eternal Love. And it came with a story — a real one, the kind that got told at auctions to drive up the price. Two people, one life, bound to each other until the end. Their second anniversary, she had asked for it. The only time she'd ever asked Frederick for anything. He said yes. She found out she was pregnant around the same time. Then the baby was gone, and she never brought up the bracelet again. Seing it now — on someone else's wrist — turned her stomach in a way she wasn't prepared for. He'd been humoring her from the very beginning. Eternal Love wasn't meant for her. It had always been meant for Beatrice. She just hadn't been worth the truth. The weight of it pressed down on her chest, made it hard to breathe. It felt like something was peling her open, layer by layer — every version of herself that had loved him, every small hope she'd carried. All of it exposed now, ugly and raw. Her palms were damp. Then the bedroom door swung open. Frederick walked in. She looked at him. He looked exhausted — hollow-eyed, like he hadn't slept. His clothes still carried the sharp antiseptic smell of a hospital. Avalon stood out of reflex. But she didn't reach for his jacket the way she always had before. "What time is it?" she said. "You're just getting back now? Chapter 3 Mrs. Merritt, I'm Sorry — It's Beatrice Whitmore Frederick leaned back against the sofa and said nothing. Avalon hung up his coat, then turned to him. "Frederick, I saw the report. You went to the hospital with Ms. Whitmore — is she pregnant?" Avalon Thornton, Beatrice Whitmore is a public figure. Don't go spreading rumors with no basis. It's bad for her and it's bad for the company." Frederick barely lifted his eyes, voice sharp with irritation. "I just want to know why you were the one who went with her." Avalon didn't back down. She held his gaze and pressed on, word by word. "She has an assistant. She has a manager. The company has staff who handle exactly this kind of thing. No matter how you look at it, none of that requires you personally." Every word was reasonable. Every word landed clean. Frederick's brow creased. He clearly hadn't expected her to push back like this. He stood and crossed the room toward her, his expression darkening into something that made the air feel heavier. "She was on set yesterday, working overtime. She collapsed from exhaustion. As president of Meritt Group, I had every reason — professional and personal — to be there." Avalon opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Frederick's hand shot out and gripped her jaw. "She was hemorrhaging by the time I arrived. Isn't the human instinct to help someone first?" His voice dropped colder. "You disappoint me, Avalon." The words landed like a door slamming shut. He released her — hard. Avalon stumbled, and something complicated moved through her eyes. She just looked at him. Still. Quiet. A year ago, a month ago — any version of before — she would have apologized the moment he got angry. That had always been her reflex. But now, listening to him, all she felt was doubt. Seven years of marriage. Seven years of rumors. Every single time, she had talked herself back down, told herself it was just publicity, just optics, just the price of being with a man like him. She was starting to think she'd been wrong about that. Especially today, with those prenatal test results still burning in her mind. Her gut hadn't stopped twisting since she found them. "What now?" Frederick noticed the shift in her. She was too quiet. Her eyes were too flat — none of the usual hurt, none of the usual pleading. This version of Avalon was unfamiliar to him, and something about it made him speak first. He stepped closer, looking down at her. His thumb moved across her skin, slow and absent. Avalon was beautiful — smooth skin, a figure that curved in all the right ways. The kind of softness a man wanted to reach for. Frederick was no different. In bed, she was never the one who chased. But that shy, half-reluctant warmth she gave off was exactly the kind of thing that made a man lose control. And in daily life, she took care of every detail without being asked, remembered every small preference without being reminded. And yet — somehow, all of it left him cold. Like still water. Like something that just sat there. If it weren't for his grandfather's will — the clause that locked the family shares behind a full seven years of marriage — he was fairly sure he would have ended this long ago. Then he thought of Beatrice. The way she had cried against him, clutching at his shirt, telling him she didn't want her child to come into the world without a name. The faint edge of guilt he'd been carrying dissolved. What replaced it was something much simpler: he was done pretending. "Avalon, don't give me that look. The situation with Beatrice Whitmore ends here." His patience was gone. "Then why did you have her prenatal test results in your jacket pocket?" It was the first time Avalon had ever pushed this hard on anything. Her voice was steady, almost relentless. "You're being completely unreasonable!" Frederick shoved her away. This version of her — pressing, unyielding — grated against him in a way he didn't know how to place. Mostly it just made him angry. He watched her hit the edge of the table from the force of it. He made no move to help. Avalon's hands flew instinctively to her stomach. The pain came fast and sharp. Cold sweat broke across her skin. Before she could make a sound — the door slammed. Frederick was gone. She stayed where she was, on the floor, and didn't go after him. The disappointment in her eyes had nowhere left to go — it just kept deepening. Seven years. And this was what she had. He had known how much the rumors bothered her. He had known, and he still stood there and scolded her for asking. So Beatrice really was different to him, wasn't she? Beatrice really did mean something. Avalon laughed at herself, low and humorless. And then the thought surfaced, quiet and certain: the news that she was pregnant probably didn't mean much to him either. She stayed on the floor a long time before she managed to stand. Her phone rang. Frederick's mother — Arabella Stratton. Avalon answered. "Come back to Stonehaven Manor tonight." It wasn't a request. "Yes." Avalon didn't hesitate. The line went dead. Avalon stared at the blank screen and felt the headache settle in. Arabella had never liked her. Seven years without giving the Merritt family a child hadn't helped. The contempt had always been thinly veiled at best. For years, her love for Frederick had been the only thing keeping her standing. But he had worn that down, piece by piece, until almost nothing was left. She was tired of carrying this alone. And now she thought — fine. If Arabella wanted her back at the manor, then Frederick could say it all out loud, in front of his mother. He could explain himself. It was the thought of someone who had finally let go. She'd circled back from this edge so many times before. But this time felt different. This time, it held. She called Frederick. The line connected, and a woman's voice came through — soft, unhurried. "Hi, Frederick's resting right now. Could you call back a little later?" Avalon had nothing left to lose, and it made her fearless. "Who are you? Why are you answering my husband's phone?" She already knew. Beatrice Whitmore had a voice that couldn't be mistaken for anyone else's. Sure enough, the next second: "Mrs. Merritt, I'm sorry — it's Beatrice Whitmore. Frederick didn't have your name saved in his phone, so I didn't realize it was you." Her tone was earnest, with just enough hurt underneath. "He was up all of last night, and when he came back just now he looked exhausted, so he went straight to sleep. I didn't want to disturb him, so I answered for him. I'm sorry." Frederick. Frederick. The name rolled off Beatrice's tongue like she'd been saying it for years. Easy. Familiar. Like it belonged to her. Every time Avalon had read those gossip columns over the years, it was always the same — Beatrice calling him Frederick, telling reporters they'd known each other too long to be formal. How convenient. Avalon's expression went flat. "Ms. Whitmore, you don't have the right to answer Frederick's phone. Please hand it to him." There was a brief silence on the other end. Then Beatrice, smooth as ever: "I'll go wake him." Avalon heard her call his name. A moment later, his voice came through. "Avalon Thornton, does everything have to be a fight with you?" He opened with an attack. Didn't even give her a second to speak. "Beatrice was trying not to wake me. She answered the phone to help. And you're going to make it into something?" He had already decided what had happened. He had already taken her side. A few feet away, Beatrice stood quietly — saying nothing, looking wounded in that particular way of hers. Frederick didn't think twice. His protectiveness was instinct. Avalon didn't know if she was numb, or something else entirely. But even standing inside Frederick's anger right now, she felt almost nothing. Just a dull ache behind her sternum. Her voice came out calm. "Frederick. Your mother called. She wants us to come home tonight." She wanted this out in the open. In front of Arabella. If Arabella couldn't stand her, fine — but could she really prefer a scandal-soaked actress instead? On the other end of the line, Frederick went quiet. Chapter 4 Beatrice Whitmore's Baby Belongs to Frederick Merritt Frederick Merritt knew the truth. Arabella Straton had never warmed to Avalon Thornton, which meant going back home was never easy for Avalon. He knew that. But right now, the woman in front of him was Beatrice Whitmore — soft eyes, quiet hurt, looking up at him like she was trying so hard not to ask for too much. His chest tightened. He could see it. Beatrice didn't want him to leave. So he killed the call without a second thought. "Avalon Thornton." His voice came out flat and cold. "How old are you? Handle it yourself." He hung up. Avalon stared at the dead screen. The hollowness behind her eyes deepened — grief and disappointment pooling somewhere she couldn't quite reach. Her phone kept buzzing. News alerts, one after another. [Frederick Merritt Spends the Night at Beatrice Whitmore's Side — Romance Confirmed?] The video clips rolled through her feed in an endless loop, each one landing like a fresh cut. She closed her eyes. And made a decision she'd never made before. She needed to see it for herself. She needed to know — was Frederick really with Beatrice? She exhaled slowly, forcing herself still. When she opened her eyes and looked in the mirror, her face was bare and plain. Clean. Ordinary. Then she reached for her makeup. She did it carefully. Refined. Understated. She h it. Dep down, Avalon was still twenty-seven years old — seven years of marriage hadn't changed that. She liked color and light and the kind of beauty that made people look twice. Bright lip, bold eye, alive. But Frederick didn't like that. He'd told her once that women who dressed like that were trouble. Too flashy. Too much. Not the kind you brought home. So she'd buried it. Piece by piece, she'd remade herself into the woman he wanted. By the time she finished, her phone had filled up with a new wave of alerts — Beatrice Whitmore, possibly pregnant. Avalon looked at the photo on her screen for a long moment. And then something cold moved through her. Because the woman in the mirror — composed, elegant, tasteful — looked a little too much like Beatrice. Like she'd spent years learning to imitate a woman she'd never even met. The thought made her skin crawl. She wiped the makeup off. All of it. Then she left — no announcement, no driver — and made her way quietly to the hospital. ****** Beatrice's room wasn't exactly a secret. Avalon found it without much trouble. She stopped at the door, and through the glass panel, she could see everything. Frederick was sitting at the bedside. Close. Careful. The way he looked at Beatrice — that gentleness in his eyes — wasn't something he tried to hide. Anyone could read it. Avalon had never seen that look on his face. Not once. Not directed at her. With her, he was always cold. Always impatient. Always done. How funny. She dropped her gaze for a moment, and whatever was left of her hope — that last fragile thread — quietly snapped. She went still. The two of them inside were wrapped up in each other, completely unaware she was there. Avalon's fingers closed around the door handle, and she pushed it open. Beatrice's hand was resting on top of Frederick's. "Frederick." Avalon said his name steadily. His eyes cut to her — sharp, guarded. She held his gaze and didn't flinch. Then she turned to the woman in the bed. "Ms. Whitmore." Her voice was even. "Your hand is on my husband's. I'm not sure that's appropriate." She was Mrs. Merritt. The question was perfectly reasonable. This was also the first time she'd ever seen Beatrice in person. On screen, the woman was stunning. In real life, she was something else entirely — a face that small and perfectly shaped, features like a porcelain doll, makeup that somehow managed to look both efortless and exact. Graceful. The kind of delicate that made people want to protect her. Any man would fall for her. Avalon understood that, standing there. "I'm sorry—" Beatrice spoke first, but she was looking at Frederick, not Avalon. "I told you not to come. I knew it would put you in an impossible position." Her voice was soft and earnest. "I can handle a little discomfort. I just didn't want this to be hard for you." Avalon watched the exchange without a word. They looked like the real couple. She was the one who didn't belong. She didn't move. Didn't speak. She wanted to see exactly how far Frederick would take this. His gaze swung back to her. She took one step back. He turned to Beatrice, his voice dropping into something gentle. "Bea. I came here, and I meant it — I'm not going to let anyone make you feel like you've done something wrong. You're pregnant. Don't stress yourself. I'll handle this, okay?" Pregnant. Bea. Don't stress. The pieces clicked into place all at once. Beatrice was pregnant. And the baby was his. "Frederick." Avalon raised her chin and looked straight at him. "The baby is yours. Isn't it?" She kept her posture composed — that cool, unbothered lift of the head she'd learned to use like armor. But underneath it, something was twisting. She waited. She was still waiting for him to deny it. One word. Just one, and she told herself she'd believe him. She'd find a way. "Don't you think youowe me an explanation?" Her voice dropped lower. She stepped toward him and grabbed his hand. Frederick looked down at her. Then, without expression, he peled her fingers off his arm and let go — deliberately, like she was something he was removing from himself. The look in his eyes was ice. "Watch your attitude." His jaw was tight. Beatrice cut him off before he could say more. She looked at Avalon with something that wanted to pass for guilt — but underneath it, barely hidden, was a glint of satisfaction. "Can I call you Avalon? At the wrap party, Frederick and I both had too much to drink. I lost control of myself, and it happened. That's on me — all of it. Please don't blame Frederick. If you need to be angry at someone, be angry at me." Beatrice's voice broke slightly at the end. Gracious, tearful, contrite. "I know what I did was wrong. But I didn't have a choice — my body can't handle an abortion. So I have to keep the baby. Avalon, I'm so sorry." She kept apologizing, over and over. Nothing like the Beatrice Whitmore everyone knew — polished, untouchable, above it all. This version was frightened and careful. Which made Avalon look like the aggressor. "Don't talk about yourself like that." Frederick's brow creased. He couldn't stand watching Beatrice diminish herself. He looked at her — head bowed, apologizing to his wife — and his temper broke. "Avalon Thornton." His voice cracked like a whip. "Was the'reasonable' act always just that — an act? She's already lowered herself to apologize to you. What more do you want from her?" He wasn't done. "She was going to abort the baby. I stopped her. Do you know what that means — an abortion at this stage? It could leave her unable to have children for the rest of her life. She has been thinking about your feelings this entire time, and you're standing here like you want to destroy her. What is wrong with you?" Every sentence landed like a verdict. Avalon stepped back with each one. The last of it — whatever she'd been holding onto — was gone. The man who used to shield her. Who used to coax a smile out of her. She barely recognized him now. The disgust in his eyes was unmistakable. She couldn't find a single word. Her hand drifted — almost without thinking — to rest against her lower abdomen. No one here would welcome her news. She already knew that. She watched Frederick stand and walk toward her. Then his hand closed around her wrist and pulled her out of the room — keeping Beatrice away from the scene, clearly. The grip was hard enough to hurt. Her wrist ached under his fingers. She didn't make a sound. She stared up at him, jaw set, eyes refusing to drop. Her eyes were bright — wet at the edges — but she didn't look away. Hurt, yes. Stuborn, more. "Beatrice being pregnant is a fact. Do your job as Mrs. Merritt and stop pushing me." It wasn't a request. "If she matters this much to you," Avalon said, and her voice was the calmest it had been all night, "why not just divorce me?" A short, hollow laugh escaped her. She blinked the tears back. "It's your grandfather's will, isn't it. We haven't been married seven years yet. You still need the last of the family shares. That's it, right? Chapter 5: If It's Over, Make It a Clean Break Frederick Merritt's eyes darkened for a split second, the impatience in them flashing before he buried it. But he kept his voice even. "Avalon Thornton, even if Grandfather were still here, he wouldn't want the Merritt family line to die out." One sentence. That was all it took to leave her speechless. She parted her lips, searching for something — anything — to say. But Frederick had already turned away, cool and indifferent, walking off without a second glance. Whatever Avalon had been about to say dissolved in her throat. Disappointment had been her companion for years. Now it was curdling into something worse — despair. "Fine. Go apologize to Beatrice Whitmore. Then I'll have the driver take you home." Even that came out as a command, delivered with the same detached authority he used for everything else. The coldness of it made Avalon drop her gaze. A short, bitter laugh escaped her before she could stop it. The news she'd been carrying — the pregnancy she hadn't found the right moment to share, not once, not through all the attempts — she let it go. Completely. There was nothing left to say. Seven years of marriage. And this was what it had come to. The most brutal blow she'd ever taken. She had been living in a fairy tale. And now the illusion had been torn away — mercilessly, completely. She was so tired. "Frederick." Her voice was quiet, almost calm. "I didn't do anything wrong. I'm not apologizing." His brow furrowed. "Go. Apologize." "No." She held his gaze and didn't move. Wouldn't. She was gambling. Betting that seven years meant something — that he couldn't be entirely unmoved. The silence stretched. Then Frederick exhaled. "Suit yourself." He turned and walked back toward the hospital room without another word, leaving her alone in the corridor. The hallway felt hollow around her. The air itself seemed to carry a kind of grief. Avalon looked down. Tears fell — heavy, slow — hitting the floor and vanishing into the tile like they were never there. She couldn't stay. She turned and walked toward the hospital exit, moving fast. A few minutes later, she heard footsteps behind her. Her heart jumped — a small, stupid flicker of hope — and then died just as fast. Frederick stopped in front of her, his expression pulled into a slight frown. He'd never seen her look like this. In all the years he'd known her, Avalon's eyes had always been bright with that particular warmth, that unmistakable adoration whenever she looked at him. Not this. Not the cold, hollow stillness staring back at him now. It unsettled him in a way he didn't like, and his mood slid darker because of it, his voice going flat and cutting. "Avalon Thornton. From this moment on, you don't go near Beatrice Whitmore. Are we clear?" The words were deliberate. Cruel in their precision. "We've been married. I'd rather not have to be completely heartless about this." Back in the room, Beatrice had nearly gone into distress over the confrontation — her pregnancy making her fragile, her tears making Frederick protective. Her pain had needed somewhere to land. It had landed on Avalon. But seven years wasn't nothing, and Frederick wasn't entirely without calculation. He knew how to handle this. He'd always known. Whenever he turned cold, Avalon retreated. She'd shrink back, apologize through tears, beg him to forgive her. She'd fold herself back into the version of herself he preferred — soft, devoted, orbiting entirely around him. It had worked every single time. He waited for it now. It didn't come. Avalon said nothing. She just looked at him — steady, expressionless, completely still. His frown deepened. "Avalon Thornton. Did you hear me?" His voice dropped another register. She still didn't answer. The last ember of hope she'd felt when he followed her out here — gone. Extinguished. "I'll have the driver take you home," he said, his patience fully spent. Nothing. She just kept looking at him. "Something else you want to say?" The irritation was open now. "Frederick Merritt." Her voice didn't shake. "The way your mind works — it disgusts me." It was the first time she had ever said anything like that to him. She turned and walked away. The pain hit before she'd made it far — sharp, cramping waves tearing through her abdomen. She pushed through them. Kept walking. Until she couldn't. She collapsed. A stranger found her and brought her back to the emergency room. The ER doctor looked her over and didn't hold back. "You're pregnant and you waited this long to come in? Do you understand how dangerous that is? Do you even want this baby?" "Yes." Avalon's eyes locked onto the doctor's. "I want this baby." The doctor shook her head, then asked, "Where's your husband?" Avalon hesitated for only a second. "We're divorced." The doctor had seen enough to know not to push. She had Avalon sign the intake forms, assigned her a bed, and started an IV drip. By nine o'clock that night, the drip was done. All around her, women rested in their beds while husbands and mothers and sisters hovered nearby. Avalon sat alone. She got up quietly and walked toward the exit. That was when she saw Beatrice Whitmore. Avalon's eyes moved instinctively to the space beside her. Frederick wasn't there. "Looking for Frederick?" Beatrice's smile was warm and easy and aimed straight at her. "He went to get some things from my place. I told him to go home and rest, but he wouldn't listen. He's so stubborn when it comes to me." She said it like she was proud of it. Avalon felt sick. Then Beatrice's gaze dropped to her wrist. "Oh. So that's where the bracelet ended up." Avalon looked down at it. Frederick had given it to her years ago — the only gift he'd ever given her. She'd told herself it was meaningful. She'd worn it every day since. Never took it off. "What do you mean by that?" Avalon asked, keeping her voice level. "Frederick bought it for me originally. I didn't want it." Beatrice tilted her head, still smiling. "I guess when I turned it down, he just passed it along to you." She gave a small, pleasant nod and walked back inside. Avalon didn't move. The gift she had treasured for years. The one she had taken as proof that he cared — that somewhere beneath all that coldness, he saw her. It had been Beatrice's reject. Something she didn't want, handed off without a second thought. "Oh, one more thing." Beatrice paused and turned back. Avalon met her eyes, keeping her face as still as she could even as the color drained out of it. "If I were you, I wouldn't try to use a pregnancy to hold onto Frederick." Light, conversational, unbothered. "He said it himself — the only child he'll ever care about is mine." Then she was gone. Avalon felt nothing. Just numbness, spreading outward from somewhere deep in her chest. She looked down at the bracelet. She could still remember the exact feeling of the day she'd received it. The joy that had moved through her — so complete, so certain, she would have traded anything in the world to keep it. She had believed it was love. She had believed she was loved. It was a castoff. The pain came in slow, deliberate waves, like a blade finding the same wound again and again. The suffocating weight of it pressed down on her until she could barely breathe, her face going paler by the second. Without thinking, she grabbed the bracelet and yanked it off her wrist. Dropped it into the trash can beside her. Like cutting out the last seven years by the root. If it was over, she was going to make it a clean break. Some time passed before she came back to herself. Kellan Calloway's words kept circling through her mind, over and over. She had been a fool. She had given up everything for Frederick Merritt — her ambitions, her direction, herself. She was supposed to be someone. She had a talent that could have taken her somewhere real, somewhere she could have been proud of. Instead she had ended up here. Small. Humiliated. Diminished. Avalon took a slow breath and pulled out her phone. She typed out a message to Kellan. Avalon: [Senior, I'll be back in New York in three months. I want back on the team.] His reply came quickly. Kellan: [Yes! Can't wait!] She didn't write back. She didn't have anything left in her tonight. She got into the car, and the hospital disappeared behind her. Chapter 6: I Probably Won't Be Coming Back Avalon Thornton stepped through the front door of the villa, and the butler was already moving toward her. "Ma'am, Mr. Merritt asked that you return his call." He delivered the message word for word. Avalon went still for a moment, then glanced down at her phone. Dead. She hadn't even noticed. Why would Frederick be calling her? The answer came quickly — the infusion clinic, the hallway, Beatrice Whitmore standing there like she owned every inch of space she occupied. So Beatrice ran to him. Something settled low in Avalon's chest. She lowered her eyes and kept her voice even. "All right. I'll call him in a bit." The butler nodded without a word and quietly stepped back. By the time Avalon reached her room, it was ten o'clock at night. She plugged in her phone and watched the screen light up — missed call after missed call, all from Frederick. If he hadn't been cheating on her, she might have believed he was worried. She might have felt something soft about all those calls. Instead, the only thing she wanted to know now was exactly how far he was willing to go. How cold he could actually be. She steadied herself and called him back. He didn't even let her speak. "Avalon Thornton." His voice came through hard and sharp. "I've told you before — stay away from her. She's pregnant. She can't handle that kind of stress." So Beatrice had told him. Of course she had. "Did she come to you with a complaint?" Avalon asked. Her voice was perfectly calm. Almost too calm. "Beatrice isn't like that. One of the bodyguards saw what happened." There wasn't a single moment of hesitation in his voice — every word was a defense of her. "She hasn't said one bad thing about you. Not once. She's never had any intention of taking the title of Mrs. Merritt away from you. You're the one who decided she was guilty." Avalon just listened. So it was all her fault. The same Beatrice who had stood in front of her and provoked her, bold and utterly shameless — in Frederick's version, she was fragile. Wounded. A woman wronged. And Avalon was the villain. Aggressive, unreasonable, cruel. "Frederick." She said his name quietly. He paused. Something in her tone stopped him. It was too composed — nothing like the woman she'd been every other time Beatrice's name came up. Before, she would lose her temper, push back, make noise. And then, the moment he went cold and said nothing, she would crack. She would apologize. She always apologized. But right now she sounded like she was negotiating a contract. It made him uneasy in a way he couldn't quite name — like something that had always stayed inside his grip had just quietly slipped out of it. "Are you absolutely sure," she said, "that she has no interest in becoming Mrs. Merritt?" "You're getting more unreasonable by the day!" The anger came fast. "I've said it a hundred times — she is not like that! I'm done talking about this. Stay home. Don't go out. I don't want any more unnecessary problems." He hung up. Avalon stared at the ended call. Her eyes burned. But she didn't cry. She had probably run out of tears. She stood up. Her phone was still charging on the nightstand. She turned and walked into the dressing room, pulled a suitcase from the shelf, and opened it on the floor. Both their wardrobes lined the walls — her clothes and his, arranged neatly side by side. She used to sort them herself. There had been something about doing that, about pressing his shirts next to her dresses, that made the marriage feel real. Tangible. Hers. Now she could see it for what it was. Self-deception, every last fold of it. She packed quietly. Just the things she actually used, the things that were actually hers. When she was done, she stood back and looked at the suitcase. Seven years in this house. Seven years inside the Merritt world. And everything she was taking fit into one twenty-four-inch bag. The ache started in her lower back as she finished — a reminder her body hadn't let her forget these past days. She was pregnant. She had to be careful. She sat down on the edge of the bed and pressed one hand gently to her stomach. Her voice, when it came, was softer than she'd heard it in a long time. "Be good for me, okay?" She was talking to the baby. Talking to what was barely more than a cluster of cells right now. But it didn't matter. This child was already everything she had left to hold on to. When the feeling passed, she took her pajamas into the bathroom and showered. It was past one in the morning by the time she finally lay down. Out of habit, she picked up her phone one last time. No calls from Frederick. The gossip headlines had only gotten louder — more speculation, more photos, more noise about him and Beatrice. Neither of them had denied anything. Avalon set the phone aside and stared at the ceiling until sleep eventually pulled her under. ****** She came downstairs in the morning with the suitcase rolling behind her. The butler's face went blank the instant he saw it. "Ma'am — what is this? Where are you going?" "I'm moving out." She didn't soften it. "I probably won't be coming back." He didn't know what to say. He'd worked for the Merritt family for years. He'd watched Frederick and Avalon keep a careful, polished distance from each other — two people who never raised their voices, who were always perfectly civil. And Avalon herself had been nothing but gentle. Patient. She treated everyone in this house with genuine respect, the staff included. He had honestly believed she and Frederick would simply continue — quietly, steadily, indefinitely. Now she was leaving, just like that. He had a good guess why. The rumors had been everywhere. It wasn't his place to ask. "Does Mr. Merritt know?" he asked carefully. "Mm." The sound was noncommittal. He took it as a yes. If she was leaving, she would have told him. That was the kind of person Avalon was. He offered to arrange a car. She declined. She walked out alone, suitcase in hand, and flagged down a cab. There was an apartment in the city — her mother's last gift to her, left behind before she passed. The only thing she'd owned that was truly hers. 'Ava, I know this means nothing to the Merritts. But you'll have a place that belongs to you. If something ever goes wrong, at least you'll have somewhere to go.' Her mother had known, somehow. Or maybe she'd just hoped she was wrong. Avalon pushed open the apartment door. It wasn't run-down. Someone came to clean every week, and it only needed a little straightening before it was livable. The things she was missing she'd already ordered online — they would arrive today. At noon she ordered delivery. Spicy pickled-pepper frog legs, the kind she used to crave. She hadn't eaten it once in seven years of marriage. Frederick couldn't stand strong flavors, so she stopped ordering it. Stopped thinking about it, eventually. She ate every bite. She had already decided — three months, and then she'd be gone for good. Which meant she needed to get back up to speed on her team's work before that happened. Better to start now. Keep busy. That was the only way to stop the thoughts from circling. The week passed. Neither she nor Frederick reached out. The tabloid coverage that had been everywhere — loud and relentless — vanished almost overnight, like someone had flipped a switch. Avalon didn't follow it. She already knew why. Beatrice's real identity made that kind of public gossip inconvenient. Frederick would have had it buried without a second thought. She turned back to her laptop. She and Kellan Calloway were in the middle of a work discussion, and she focused on that. ****** Across the city, Frederick was helping Beatrice check out of the hospital. The old apartment was useless now — reporters had been staking it out for days. Beatrice had worried about the stress affecting the baby and asked, with a soft pout, if they could find somewhere else. Frederick agreed without hesitation and arranged a luxury apartment for her to recover in. "Are you staying?" Beatrice looked up at him and asked quietly. "I have a few things to take care of." His voice was gentle. "I'm sorry." She looked down, already apologizing. "I didn't think it would get this serious. You were stuck at the hospital with me for so long — I must have thrown off so much of your work." "Go," she added softly. "The housekeeper and the baby will keep me company. We'll be fine." "Okay." He gave a short nod. Beatrice reached around him naturally, her arms circling his waist, and pressed a light kiss to his lips. "I'll miss you," she said. Frederick smiled, said a few words to the housekeeper, and left. As he walked away, the thought settled in the back of his mind: Avalon hadn't contacted him once this entire week. Hadn't apologized. Hadn't backed down. She'd never held out this long before.