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She looks at me then, really looks, and the plea in her eyes becomes unmistakable.

Please. Do not say anything.

She is asking me to protect that lie without offering me anything in return except panic and those wide, desperate eyes.

But Alester is watching.

And whatever anger I feel toward her, it is mine. Not his.

I turn my head slightly toward him. “No,” I say. “We haven’t.”

Maggie’s breath leaves her quietly.

Alester studies me for a moment, then her. If he sees anything, he doesn’t show it.

“I see,” he says. He gestures toward the seating area. “Please,” he says. “Sit. There are a few things we should discuss now that the result has been confirmed.”

Maggie turns toward the chairs, but her movement is not steady. Not visibly weak. Not enough for Alester to offer concern. But I notice the small delay, the way her fingers tighten once around the bag before she lets go. She sits on the edge of the cream sofa, careful and contained, as if she’s afraid of leaving evidence on something expensive.

I take the chair opposite her because it’s the only place that lets me see her face.

Alester sits beside the fireplace.

I hear Alester begin speaking about confirmation, next steps, medical monitoring, expected schedule. He says everything correctly. Nothing in his voice is cruel. That is the worst of it. He sounds reasonable. Prepared. Satisfied in a restrained way, as if a risk has converted into a milestone.

Maggie nods when required. Her hands remain folded in her lap.

She doesn’t look at me again.

That is probably wise.

I look at her anyway.

Because now the lie is alive between us.

Because although she is pregnant, I still want her.

Because I’m angry enough to feel it in my teeth.

And because somewhere under all of that, beneath the desire and the anger and the shock, another thought has begun to form.

A dangerous one.

A thought I have no proof for and no right to have. But once it’s there, it doesn’t leave.

What if it’s mine?

Alester speaks as though every part of this has already been placed in the correct folder.

“Petra Lindqvist,” he says, turning slightly toward the woman standing near the table. “My executive assistant. She has been coordinating the arrangement from my side.”

Petra gives me a controlled nod. “Dr. Price.”

“Ms. Lindqvist.”

Her handshake is brief, dry, exact.

She’s the kind of woman who has made a profession out of never appearing surprised. Pale hair drawn back, suit without a crease, expression polite enough to pass inspection and cold enough to discourage conversation.