Chapter 3

"I understand why you're restless," Ethan said once we were alone. "But we're not twenty-two anymore. We got married late. We don't have forever to start a family."

He spoke gently, as if explaining a medical fact to a difficult patient.

"Our parents are worried. After what happened last time, you need to slow down. Let me handle the company."

"I've thought about that," I said.

Relief loosened his shoulders.

"And you're right. A person can't do everything. If I choose the company, pregnancy should be handled by someone better suited to it. We can hire a gestational surrogate. I'll cover the full cost. Three hundred thousand dollars should give us excellent options."

His chair shot backward.

"That's insane. You can carry a baby yourself. Why would you pay another woman to do it?"

"Because I have someone in mind."

The color left his face.

I gave him the smile I used when investors asked questions they already knew the answer to.

"You can relax and prepare to be a father."

"Who?"

I opened the quarterly forecast on my laptop. "Ask finance to send me the department reports."

"Claire, who are you talking about?"

"Thirty minutes, please. And include head count changes for the last twenty-four months."

He stood there for another moment, studying me. Then he left and closed the door too hard.

The reports arrived through a junior operations analyst named Owen Price. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five, but he carried the files like a man delivering evidence in a criminal trial.

"Ms. Hayes," he said. "I was told to bring these personally."

"Who told you?"

"My former manager."

I looked at the cover page. The notes in the margin were familiar.

"Adrian Blake?"

Owen nodded. "He left last month."

Adrian had been Ethan's roommate in college and the third founder of our company. He was the best systems architect I had ever worked with and the worst person in the world at pretending to like someone.

If Adrian had resigned, something fundamental had broken.

I went through the reports line by line.

People I had hired had been reassigned to maintenance teams or stripped of decision-making authority. Product managers who used to challenge Ethan had disappeared. Expense approvals had been consolidated under his office. The company wasn't failing yet, but it had become narrower, quieter, and far more dependent on one man's judgment.

"How many of the original leads are still here?" I asked.

"Four," Owen said. "Out of seventeen."

"And the others?"

"Some resigned. Some were moved until they resigned."

I closed the report.

Ethan had assumed I would swallow an affair to protect the company.

He was half right. I would protect what I had built.

Just not for him.

"Can you drive a passenger van?" I asked Owen.

He blinked. "Yes."

"Good. Keep tomorrow open."

That evening, Ethan's parents came to our house carrying vitamins, herbal packets, and enough groceries for a family of six.

His mother, Diane, took my hands before I had removed my coat.

"Claire, work will always be there. This is the time to think about a baby. Ethan needs a family. You need one too."

I looked at Ethan.

He met my eyes with an expression so sincere that I almost admired the performance.

"Mom's worried about you," he said. "We all are."

"Then I'll stay home tomorrow," I said. "I have something important to arrange."

Diane relaxed. Ethan did too.

Later, in bed, he slid an arm around my waist. His hand moved toward my stomach.

I caught his wrist.

"Not tonight."

"Why?"

"My period started."

He rolled away with an irritated sigh.

Within forty minutes, he was asleep.

I did not touch his phone.

I didn't need to.

The quarterly reports showed recurring charges on a corporate card Ethan had classified as executive travel. Hotel stays in Fairmont. Grocery deliveries to the same apartment. Flights booked under his loyalty account, with itinerary copies sent automatically to the shared email address we had used since college.

The latest reservation was for ten the next morning.

Fairmont. His birthday.

I forwarded the relevant records to a new private folder, then sent Owen one message.

Tomorrow. Eight a.m. Bring the van.