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The fluorescent lights of the private hospital bathroom hummed with a low, irritating buzz that seemed to vibrate against Claudia Valentine's skull. She sat on the closed lid of the toilet, her hands gripping the edge of the porcelain so hard her knuckles had turned the color of bone.

On the counter, resting on a square of toilet paper, was the plastic stick.

It had been three minutes. The instructions said three minutes.

She didn't want to look. If she didn't look, the reality sitting in the test window didn't exist yet. If she didn't look, she was still just Claudia Valentine, the wife of Ezequiel Sanford, living a cold but predictable life.

Claudia forced her eyes open. She forced them to focus on the small display window.

One pink line. That was the control. That was normal.

Then, slowly, agonizingly, a second pink line ghosted into existence right next to it. It darkened with every second that ticked by on her watch.

Two lines.

A sound tried to escape her throat, a whimper or a gasp, but she slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle it. The air in the small room suddenly felt too thin, like all the oxygen had been sucked out by the ventilation fan.

Pregnant.

She was pregnant.

For three years, Claudia had navigated the frozen landscape of her marriage to Ezequiel. They slept in the same bed, but miles apart. They attended galas, his hand on the small of her back only when cameras were flashing, his touch burning and impersonal.

And now, this. A child. A Sanford heir.

Her hand trembled as she reached out and grabbed the stick. She couldn't leave it here. She couldn't let anyone see it. She shoved it deep into the inner zippered pocket of her purse, burying it beneath receipts and lipsticks.

Claudia stood up and faced the mirror. Her reflection looked pale, the dark circles under her eyes stark against her skin. She ran the tap, splashing freezing water onto her face, trying to shock her system back into functionality. She practiced the expression she had perfected over the last thousand days.

Chin up. Eyes blank. Lips pressed into a neutral line.

The mask of Mrs. Ezequiel Sanford.

She unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway. The hospital smell-antiseptic and floor wax-hit her, making her stomach roll. She wasn't sure if it was the nerves or the morning sickness kicking in early.

A nurse in blue scrubs rounded the corner, nearly colliding with her. She was walking fast, holding a tray of IV bags.

"Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Sanford," she said, breathless. She recognized Claudia. Everyone in this hospital recognized the Sanford name; Ezequiel's family practically built the west wing. "I'm so sorry, we have an emergency in the VIP section."

The nurse didn't wait for a response, rushing past her toward the end of the corridor.

Claudia's feet moved on their own accord. She shouldn't look. She should turn left, toward the elevators, and go to her car. But the nurse had headed toward the suite usually reserved for high-profile donors.

She walked softly, sticking close to the wall. At the corner, she stopped.

Mr. Sterling, Ezequiel's personal assistant, was standing guard outside Suite 402. He was checking his watch, his face etched with a mixture of boredom and stress. If Sterling was here, Ezequiel was here.

But why? Ezequiel was supposed to be in a board meeting at Sanford Tower.

The heavy oak door of the suite clicked open. Claudia pulled back, pressing her spine against the cold wall, peeking around the edge with just one eye.

Ezequiel stepped out.

Even from this distance, he was breathtaking. Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark suit tailored to perfection. But it wasn't his appearance that made her breath hitch. It was his posture.

He was leaning down, his arm wrapped protectively around a woman's waist.

Alexa Burris.

She looked fragile, her face pale, leaning into him as if he were the only thing keeping her upright. She was wearing a hospital gown with a cashmere cardigan thrown over it.

Ezequiel held a coat in his other hand-her coat. He draped it over her shoulders with a gentleness Claudia hadn't seen in three years. He murmured something to her, his head bent low, his lips brushing her temple.

Alexa looked up at him, her eyes wide and watery. She said something, and he nodded, tightening his hold on her.

A sharp, physical pain stabbed through Claudia's chest, radiating down to her stomach. Her hand flew to her abdomen, covering the secret she had just discovered.

He was with her.

The rumors were true. The tabloids, the whispers at the charity luncheons-they weren't just gossip. She was back. And he was with her, skipping work to care for her, holding her like she was precious glass.