Chapter 4: The Night in His Bed

I rolled my eyes. “What, you think I’m magic? I can just pop one out myself?” I crossed my arms, trying not to let my hands shake.

He raised an eyebrow. "Funny. But in all these years of marriage, you’ve never even tried to make a move on me." He made it sound like a missing item on a checklist, not a plea.

I clutched my chest. “Carter! We agreed from the start—I’m not selling my body!” I hated how defensive I sounded.

He nodded. “We also never agreed you could blackmail me with a fake son, did we?” His calm was cruel.

I was doomed. Outplayed in every direction. My mind searched for exits that weren’t there.

That night, when I came out of the shower, Carter was already in bed, shirtless. He lifted the covers, giving me a look. The bedside lamp carved gold along his collarbones.

“What… what are we doing?” I stalled at the edge of the rug, as if it could shield me.

He flashed a wolfish grin. “Making a son.” He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“But…” I hesitated. “I’m on my period.” The words tumbled out, mortifying but honest.

His smile froze. The next second, he scooped me up and carried me to the bed, frowning. “On your period and you’re walking around barefoot? Doesn’t your stomach hurt? You should use a heating pad or at least take some Tylenol.” He glanced down at my cold toes, shaking his head.

He gently tucked me in, called Mrs. Walker to brew some ginger tea and bring a heating pad, and didn’t relax until I’d finished the whole pot and had the warmth at my back. My periods were always painful, but I never expected Carter to remember such a small thing. After finishing the tea, my cramps eased a lot. Mrs. Walker swore by ginger and honey—"old-fashioned but it works, honey"—and the heating pad did its job, too.

I thanked him sincerely. He just snorted, turning his back to me. His shoulders softened anyway.

“You’re sleeping here tonight?” I asked, confused. We’d spent years circling each other like polite strangers.

He pulled me into his arms, making it clear with actions. No words, just warmth and finality.

The clock on the wall read midnight. Carter was exhausted. I didn’t say another word, carefully tucked him in, and drifted off. It was our first night sharing a bed, and surprisingly, I slept well. The city hummed twenty floors below, and for once it didn’t get in.

The next morning, he was already at work when I woke up. After washing up and having breakfast, I planned to laze in the rooftop garden all morning when a guest arrived at the penthouse. The elevator ding sounded too polite for what it brought.

I recognized her—Carter’s first love, Ava Monroe. She’d come to see me. My stomach dropped; my palms went clammy.

Classic innocent looks, gentle and sweet, dressed in a white designer gown. Mrs. Walker clearly knew her. “Miss Ava,” she greeted. Old-money manners filled the space like perfume.