Chapter Two

Gemma's POV

Beatrice stood center stage in a crimson off-shoulder gown, jewels glinting with each movement—a hothouse flower bred for admiration. Her arm looped through Rowan's as she whispered up at him. He leaned in, his expression softer than I'd ever seen.

The guests had formed a loose ring around them, voices hushed but barely containing the thrill.

"Always heard there was an arrangement between the families. Something fell through back then—but look at them. They were made for each other."

"Don Sinclair never holds a woman's hand in public. Tonight means something. Something big."

"Going forward, I'd make sure to stay on Ms. Beatrice's good side first."

My father Emmett stood at the edge of the crowd, chest puffed out, beaming. My mother Josephine was beside him, wearing a warmth I'd never seen her show me. They used to boast their daughter was Don Sinclair's wife—until Rowan sent word: keep talking, and the Hartley shipping routes disappear. After that, they looked at me like debtors look at collectors. All resentment, nowhere to put it.

I looked away, checked that the documents were still at the bottom of my bag, picked up my suitcase, and moved toward the side door off the staircase.

I made it to the last step.

Rowan was already walking toward me—suit pressed, tie straight, brow furrowed in that frown he reserved just for me. His eyes dropped to the suitcase before he yanked it from my hand. "What is this? It's your sister's birthday. You're leaving?"

"Rowan—" Beatrice appeared at his side, her hand on his arm. She tilted her face up with practiced tenderness. "Don't be hard on her. It's Gemma's birthday too. We've been so focused on my party—of course she feels left out." She turned to me, eyes glistening. "Come on, Gemma. Let's celebrate together."

Her fingers closed around my wrist, nails driving in without a sound.

Pain shot through my arm. I jerked my wrist free on instinct, but Beatrice stumbled backward and fell.

She hit the floor, lips trembling, eyes reddening. "Gemma… why did you push me…"

The room went silent.

Before I could say a word, Rowan moved. He shoved me—hard—to the side.

The back of my head cracked against the edge of the stair. The sound went through my skull like something splitting. White flashed across my vision. My ears screamed.

By the time the ringing settled, Rowan was already crouched over Beatrice, one hand steadying her, saying something low I couldn't catch. Then he looked up and found my face, his voice flat and absolute. "You don't leave until a doctor confirms Beatrice is fine."

He guided her into the crowd. His back never hesitated.

I stayed where I was, sitting on the step.

The heat started spreading from the point of impact. I reached back and touched it. My fingers came away slick.

"Can anyone take me to a hospital?" I looked around.

Every pair of eyes I met slid immediately away—as if I'd burned them.

A woman in a grey gown took half a step toward me. The person beside her caught her arm at once. "Don't get involved. You want to end up decorating a bridge piling by morning, be my guest." The hand withdrew. No one else moved.

The party flowed back into itself around me.

"The Hartley girl… never was in good standing…"

"She brought it on herself. What does that have to do with us…"

I let out a short, humorless breath, dragged myself to the corner using the wall, and picked up my phone from the floor. The screen was shattered into a web.

The pain was pressing in behind my eyes now, dark pooling at the edges of my vision. I stared at that sliver of light and thought about the nearest hospital. Thought about the baby. Thought about the signed documents at the bottom of my bag.

Footsteps.

I forced my head up.

Just a silhouette against the light—tall, still, not a face I recognized from anywhere in this room.

Then everything went dark.

When I woke, a white ceiling came into focus above me. The sharp smell of antiseptic filled my nose. A man sat in the chair beside the bed. He noticed me stir and looked up.

"You're awake." Stated plainly, like noting the weather.

"Lachlan Rhodes." He set down whatever he'd been holding. "I arrived late tonight—family business ran over. If I'd gotten there an hour earlier, things might have gone differently." There was a faint crease between his brows.

He paused. "You're pregnant. The baby's fine. You have a mild concussion."

I went still. My eyes dropped to my stomach, then came back up to his face. "Don't tell—"

The door slammed open hard enough to shake the frame.

Rowan walked in still wearing his jacket, color bad, gaze cutting between me and Lachlan before locking in place.

"I told you not to go anywhere until a doctor confirms Beatrice is fine." Each word was pressed out like it cost him something to keep his voice that controlled. "Now I see. You were in that much of a rush to run straight into another man's arms."

Lachlan didn't stand. He simply turned his head, a thin thread of cold in his voice. "Mr. Sinclair. Mind how you speak. Ms. Hartley was injured, so I brought her here."

Rowan didn't acknowledge him. He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me upright. The pain from the back of my skull shot down through my neck. I locked my jaw and swallowed it.

He kept his eyes down, voice stripped to ice. "Throw a tantrum, walk out, fine. But now Beatrice is in a car accident because of you."

I stared at him.

"—What?"