Jonathan Adams came home nearly four hours late on the night his wife planned to tell him she was pregnant.

Ten seconds later, heavy, rapid footsteps pounded up the old wooden stairs of the building. Rachel stood by the locked apartment door, a wooden rolling pin in her hand, while Lillian stood in the center of the living room, her breath trembling in her chest.

A sharp, controlled knock sounded on the wood.

"Lillian," Jonathan's voice came through the panel, strained and hollow. "It’s me. Please open the door. The press is still on the sidewalk, but my security team is arriving in five minutes to clear the block."

Rachel looked at her sister. "Do you want me to tell him to go to hell?"

Lillian closed her eyes, steadying herself. Her heart was beating violently, and a sharp, sudden cramp pulled at her lower abdomen, causing her to gasp softly and press both hands against her waist.

Rachel noticed instantly. "Lillian? What's wrong?"

"I... I don't know," Lillian whispered, her face draining of color. "Just a sharp cramp. It’s probably the stress."

Rachel dropped the rolling pin onto the table and yanked the door open. Jonathan was standing in the hallway, his face pale, sweat glistening at his temples. Before he could utter a word of apology, Rachel pointed an accusatory finger at his chest.

"Get in here right now, you bastard," Rachel hissed. "She’s having cramps."

The color left Jonathan's face completely. All the corporate authority, all the billionaire arrogance that had defined him for a decade, evaporated into sheer, unadulterated panic. He rushed into the room, dropping to his knees beside the armchair Lillian had sunk into.

"Lillian," he breathed, his large hands hovering over her knees, trembling, terrified to touch her without permission. "Where does it hurt? Is it sharp? Is it dull? We’re going to the hospital right now."

"Jonathan, stop," Lillian gasped, leaning her head back against the cushion, her eyes tightly shut. "It’s just... Braxton Hicks. Dr. Vance said stress could trigger them."

"I don't care what Dr. Vance said about stress; we're not taking chances," Jonathan said, his voice tight with desperation. He stood up, turning to Rachel. "Grab her shoes and her coat. My car is right downstairs. I don't give a damn about the cameras outside."

"I'm not going out there with them watching," Lillian said, her teeth gritted against another dull ache.

"They won't see you," Jonathan vowed, his eyes blazing with an intensity Lillian had never witnessed before.

Without asking, he leaned down, scooped Lillian gently into his arms, lifting her from the chair with effortless strength. Lillian gasped, her arms instinctively flying around his neck to steady herself. Her face was pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, inhaling the familiar, agonizing warmth of him.

"Jonathan, put me down!" she protested weakly, but the sharp pinch in her stomach silenced her.

"Hold on to me," he commanded softly, his lips brushing near her temple as he held her securely against his chest. "Rachel, the bag. Stay behind me."

Jonathan kicked open the apartment door and carried Lillian down the three flights of stairs. When they hit the front vestibule, two burly men in dark suits—Jonathan's private security—had already arrived, forming an impenetrable human wall between the front entrance and the Maybach parked at the curb.

The moment Jonathan stepped onto the porch with Lillian in his arms, the cameras flashed furiously, but his security team shoved them back aggressively, clearing a wide path. Jonathan didn't look left or right. He shielded Lillian’s face with his wide shoulder, ducked into the backseat of the vehicle, and pulled her in with him before Rachel jumped into the front passenger seat.

"Mount Sinai," Jonathan barked at his driver, slamming the door shut. "Run every red light if you have to."

The car surged forward, tearing through the Brooklyn streets toward the bridge.

In the backseat, Lillian sat curled against the leather, clutching her stomach. Jonathan remained beside her, his hand resting on the seat just an inch from hers, his entire body rigid with terror.

"Is the pain getting worse?" he asked, his voice shaking.

Lillian turned her head to look at him. The man who had conquered Wall Street, the man who had cold-bloodedly announced he was leaving her on the night she discovered their pregnancy, was pale as chalk, his knuckles white, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"It’s easing up a little," she admitted softly, the cramp subsiding into a dull, tired ache.

Jonathan closed his eyes, a ragged breath escaping his chest as if he had just been pulled from the bottom of an ocean. He reached out, his hand hesitating in midair, before he gently, reverently placed his fingers over the top of hers.

"If anything happens to either of you because of what I brought to your door," Jonathan whispered, his voice breaking completely, "I will never forgive myself."