Chapter 4

I said his name. "Liam." Not Mr. Quinn. That was for everyone else.

His brows drew together. He wasn't accustomed to hearing his first name from me. I'd always called him Mr. Quinn. It was respectful and distant, never overstepping.

"I came back because there's something I need to tell you," I said.

Yvonne's gaze landed on me and raked me from head to toe. Her eyes were warm, the kind of gentleness that comes from good breeding. Every gesture was measured and deliberate; nothing was out of place.

"And this is..." She turned to Liam, her tone laced with the right touch of curiosity.

Of course she knew who I was.

Liam said nothing. He rose from the armchair, the crystal tumbler still in his hand. He stood almost a full head above me. The moment he rose, his presence swept through the room like a storm front. Heavy. Unavoidable.

"Sylvia." He said my name like he was reading off a case number."The settlement cleared. Your ticket's bought. What else do you want?"

The kid let out a scornful snort. "Please. You know exactly what that medical report in your desk says. Who are you trying to fool with this act?"

I held back a laugh. I lifted my head, looked Liam straight in the eye, and dropped the first real bomb of the night. "I'm pregnant."

Those three words landed far more powerfully than I'd expected.

Liam's fingers tightened abruptly. A sharp crack rang out. Not bone. A fracture line had split the crystal.

Yvonne kept her composure for a split second. Then the corner of her right eye gave a tiny twitch. The movement was faint, yet I'd been watching intently and caught it at once.

Peter had followed me to the doorway without me noticing. The serving tray slipped from his hands and clattered against the hallway floor, shattering two glasses.

"What did you say?" Liam's voice was so cold and low that it sent chills down my spine, making the hairs on my neck stand on end.

"I said," I repeated, forcing each word out, "I. Am. Pregnant."

Silence.

Then Liam smiled. Not a warm, joyful smile. His lips tugged upward, yet his eyes held nothing but frost. It was ten times more frightening than a blank expression.

"Sylvia." He moved in, towering above me. "That's a pathetic excuse to cling to your position. Aren't you ashamed?"

"Mom, he won't believe us. This silly guy won't accept you're pregnant." The little one inside me fidgeted anxiously, its tiny voice rising sharply. "Reason with him.

"We can get blood tests or an ultrasound at the hospital, whatever he wants. We've got nothing to hide."

I ignored the kid's hollering and took a deep breath.

"Believe it or not." My voice was steady. "Facts are facts. They don't disappear because you refuse to accept them. You can take me to any hospital you want. Blood HCG, ultrasound, your choice."

Liam's pupils contracted for a split second under the light, then returned to normal.

But I caught it.

Liam was wavering. Because he knew his own medical condition. He knew better than anyone what it would mean if this pregnancy were real.

"Liam." Yvonne's voice drifted over, soft enough to melt butter. "Perhaps we ought to let a doctor confirm this first. There's no need to sour things between you two."

She was putting out the fire. Quick and precise.

Her words sounded beautiful. On the surface, she was speaking up for me, but in reality, she was leaving Liam an out. She was reminding him, "Don't make up your mind yet. What if it's fake?"

The little one said, "Mom, she talks sweet, but she's rotten inside. The last thing she wants is for your pregnancy to be true. Mark my words. She'll come up with something to chase you off soon."

Liam went silent for a few seconds, then turned to Peter at the door. "Get Ethan over here."

Ethan White was the Quinn family's private physician. He lived in a small residence at the back of the estate. I had seen him several times before. He was a man in his fifties with a receding hairline and round wire-rimmed glasses.

He spoke slowly, yet his hands were always steady.

While we waited, the tension in the room was so thick that one could cut it with a knife.

I stood rooted in the doorway. Liam went back to the sofa and sat down. Yvonne walked over to him, her hand resting casually on his shoulder. It was only a small gesture, yet her claim over him was palpable.

I didn't look at them. My eyes landed on the painting above the bed.

The woman's profile in the painting was softly blurred, yet her gentle jawline and straight nose remained clear. Liam's brushstrokes were forceful. In some areas, the paint was applied thickly, cracking and flaking at the edges as it dried.

I'd slept under that painting for two years. Every night when Liam held me, he called out another name.

His voice was so quiet that he assumed I'd missed his words.

He called her Yvonne.

When he addressed me, it was always "Ms. Jennings," or simply silence.