“A man like Nathan does not accept defeat quietly. He will look for your vulnerability.”

“My vulnerability is my pregnancy,” I said.

“Precisely,” Margaret said. “He will try to make you look incapable of making decisions.”

She guided me to the door of her office, her hand dry and firm on my shoulder.

“Go home, Catherine. Keep your phone charged, and do not confront him until the papers are served.”

The ride back to the penthouse was silent.

The city lights were beginning to flicker on as the afternoon faded into a dull, smoky twilight.

When I entered the lobby of our building, the doorman, Arthur, gave me a polite, sympathetic nod.

I wondered how many times he had watched Sloane Vale walk through these doors while I was breathing through ultrasounds.

I took the elevator to the penthouse, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The elevator doors slid open directly into our private foyer.

The apartment was dark, save for the ambient light from the city skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

I smelled expensive cologne and the faint, citrus scent of Sloane’s perfume.