“We do it now,” I said. “A private clinic. No lawyers, no press, and no mother of yours involved.”

“Whatever you want,” he said quickly. “My driver is outside.”

“We take my car,” I corrected him. “I’m not getting into anything owned by a Harrington.”

The drive to the private medical clinic on Michigan Avenue was silent.

I drove my modest SUV through the pouring rain, my hands gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.

Blake sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the blurred city lights.

He looked smaller somehow, stripped of his usual billionaire armor.

Every few minutes, I could feel his gaze drift over to me, but I refused to look back.

We parked in the underground garage of a sleek, high-end medical building.

The elevator ride to the private lab on the twelfth floor was agonizingly slow.

The receptionist at the desk recognized Blake immediately, her eyes widening.

“Mr. Harrington,” she stammered. “We didn’t expect you.”

“I need an expedited paternity test,” Blake said, his voice tight. “Direct comparison. Now.”

She nodded quickly, picking up the phone to summon a doctor.