His hair was disheveled, clinging to his forehead, and his tie was loosened at the collar.

In the dim amber glow of the emergency lights, his eyes looked sunken and dark.

He did not look like a billionaire; he looked like a man who had spent the last three hours running out of places to hide.

He closed the door behind him, the latch clicking into place.

“Arthur,” Callum said, his voice flat and low. “Leave the room.”

Arthur did not move. He stood his ground beside my bed, his shoulders square.

“I cannot do that, Callum,” Arthur said.

Callum did not look at him. His gaze remained locked on me, traveling down to my swollen stomach beneath the thin hospital blanket.

“I said get out,” Callum repeated.

He took two steps forward. The soles of his leather shoes squeaked against the clean linoleum.

“You shouldn’t be here, Callum,” I said, keeping my voice as even as I could.

My heart was hammering against my ribs, but I kept my hands flat on the mattress.