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Because it made the truth unavoidable.

This was never just a contract. Never just a series of appointments and forms and polite voices pretending that what was happening to my body could be managed if everyone used enough careful language. That I could do the arrangement, take the money, survive the months, and come out the other end like I had simply worked a strange, difficult job.

But that isn’t what happened.

And now that I know the baby isn’t his, I can’t keep pretending it still is. I can’t keep standing in the middle of a lie because it’s expensive and well-dressed and came with a confidentiality clause.

By the time I’m shown into Alester’s study, my heart is beating hard enough that I’m surprised he can’t hear it.

He’s behind the desk when I walk in. No jacket, sleeves buttoned, expression unreadable in the usual infuriating way. He looks up, sees my face, and something in his posture changes.

“Maggie.”

I don’t sit. He notices that too.

“What happened?”

I take the folder out of my bag and hold it too tightly for a second before placing it on the desk between us.

His eyes drop to it. Then back to me. “Is something wrong with the baby?” he asks.

The question catches me off guard.

Not because it’s kind. It isn’t, not exactly. But it’s immediate. Instinctive. For a split second he sounds less like Alester Chandler, architect of controlled environments, and more like a man who has just been told something is wrong and wants to know how bad.

“No,” I say quickly. “No, the baby’s fine.”

He exhales once. Small. Controlled. But I see it.

Then he looks at the folder again. “What is it?”

And because I’ve spent all day trying not to think too far ahead, because if I pause now I might lose my nerve, I just say it.

“You’re not the father.”

The room goes very still.

He doesn’t stand up, doesn’t demand I repeat myself. He just looks at me, and for the first time since I met him, I can’t read him at all.

Then he reaches for the folder. He opens it. Reads. Doesn’t rush.

I stand there with my hands locked together so tightly they hurt and watch him take in the results that changed my life an hour ago.

When he’s done, he closes the file and sets one hand on top of it.

He says nothing.

So I do.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

His gaze lifts.

“I know that sounds insane,” I continue, “because it’s not like I did this on purpose, and I know how that sounds too, but I am sorry. I took the job under one agreement, and now that agreement—” I stop, swallow, start again. “I’m ready to back out of the NDA,” I say. “And I’ll return the money. Everything I’ve received so far, I’ll return it.”

The words come out steadier than I feel. And as I hear them, I realize they’re true. Not just panic talking. Not guilt. Not some emotional reaction to the test.

This is what I want. I want out.