Chapter Fifteen
Emily
The antique grandfather clock in the foyer of the Sinclair estate chimed one in the morning. The sound echoed through the vast halls, bouncing off imported wood and original oil paintings.
Emily sat perfectly still on the edge of the cream velvet sofa in the formal drawing room.
She was wearing a silk slip dress, her hair meticulously blown out, her makeup flawless even though there was no one awake to see it.
On the mahogany table in front of her sat a lukewarm cup of coffee and a stack of seating charts for the Children’s Hospital Charity Gala.
She was doing everything right. She had transformed herself into the zenith of high society.
She managed the estate staff with unyielding grace, ensured Charles was dressed in impeccable miniature suits, and kept her body as polished as a showroom car.
She was the perfect wife, fighting a private, desperate war to keep her marriage intact.
The front door clicked open.
Emily’s spine stiffened. She quickly composed her features, erasing the exhaustion and replacing it with a serene, welcoming smile.
Ryan walked into the foyer, handing his overcoat and briefcase to the night staff. He looked tired but impossibly handsome, his dark suit tailored to perfection, his tie loosened just a fraction at the collar.
"You’re still awake," Ryan said, stepping into the drawing room. His voice was smooth, a rich baritone that still sent a traitorous shiver down Emily's spine.
"I wanted to wait up for you," Emily said softly, standing up and walking toward him. "You said the meeting would wrap by ten."
"The Geneva deal is taking longer than expected," Ryan sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. He stepped forward and pulled her into his arms, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to her forehead. "I’m sorry, Emily. You know how much I hate leaving you alone in this big house."
He was always so attentive when he was actually in the room. He remembered her favorite flowers; he complimented her gala preparations; he played the role of the devoted husband with terrifying ease.
But the absences were growing. The "Geneva deal," the "emergency trips," the "late-night client dinners."
Emily rested her cheek against his chest, her hands smoothing the lapels of his suit jacket. As she inhaled the scent of his expensive cologne, her stomach dropped.
Beneath the cedar, there was a faint, powdery trace of something else. Something floral.
It was Sloane. Emily knew the sickly-sweet scent of that imported perfume anywhere. He hadn't transferred her. He hadn't fired her. He was still with her, keeping her tucked away in the shadows of his life while he played house with Emily.
Only months ago, in the bridal suite, she had screamed. She had clawed at him and run. But the Emily standing in the drawing room tonight was a different creature. She had learned the rules of the cage. And she couldn't imagine a life without him. This was the cost of loving a man like Ryan.
"It’s alright, darling," Emily murmured, forcing the tremor out of her voice. She pulled back and offered him a flawless, understanding smile. "I know how hard you work for our family."
Ryan’s dark eyes softened. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a slim, black velvet box.
"I saw this today between meetings," he said, handing it to her. "A small token, to apologize for the late hours."
Emily took the box. Her fingers did not tremble as she popped the lid open. Inside rested a stunning tennis bracelet—flawless, round-cut diamonds.
"Ryan, it’s breathtaking," Emily gasped, playing her part to perfection. She held out her wrist. "Put it on me?"
He smiled, securing the clasp around her delicate wrist and bringing her hand to his lips. "Only the best for my wife."
He did not stop at her hand. Ryan stepped closer, erasing the remaining space between them, and cupped her face.
His mouth crashed down on hers. It was a kiss designed to consume, his tongue parting her lips with a ruthless, practiced heat that sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core.
He pulled her flush against his chest, one hand tangling in her meticulously blown-out hair while the other gripped the curve of her waist. She tasted the expensive scotch on his breath, mixed with the faint, lingering betrayal of the lilies, but the sheer, overwhelming physical domination of his kiss drowned out her rational thoughts.
He devoured her mouth, leaving her breathless, reminding her with every bruising slide of his lips exactly why she stayed.
"I'll be right up," Emily promised as he turned to head upstairs.
She sank back onto the velvet sofa, her perfect posture finally collapsing.
She loved him. But she hated the man who came home smelling of his mistress.
She took a shaky breath, wiped her eyes, and stood up.
She smoothed her silk dress, checked her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, and began the long walk up the stairs to share a bed with a liar.
***
Two weeks later, Emily sat on the edge of the marble bathtub, staring at the small plastic stick in her trembling hands. Two pink lines.
A breathless, euphoric laugh tore from her throat.
This was it. This was the unbreakable bond she needed.
Another Sinclair heir. With a new baby, Ryan would stay home.
He would look at her the way he did when they first met.
The way he did when he first met Charles.
This time he would get to experience her pregnancy alongside her.
He would finally, completely let Sloane go.
That evening, she waited in the study. When Ryan walked in, she handed him the small gift box containing the test.
Ryan opened it, and for a split second, he went completely still. Then, a beautiful smile broke across his face.
"Emily," he breathed, looking up at her with eyes full of sheer adoration.
He crossed the room in two strides, sweeping her up into his arms and spinning her around. He kissed her deeply, fervently, raining kisses over her cheeks and her jaw. "A baby. Another child. Emily, this is incredible. You are incredible."
For the first time in months, Emily felt entirely ecstatic. She was over the moon. The attention, the warmth, the sheer joy radiating from him—it was everything she had fought for. She had won. This was their happily ever after.
***
Seven months later.
The afternoon sun beat down on the sparkling blue water of the estate's sprawling pool.
Emily reclined on a padded lounger, wearing a swimsuit that perfectly accentuated the enormous, undeniable bump of the final stretch of her pregnancy.
She was sipping sparkling water, feeling a profound sense of peace.
Ryan had been perfect lately. He was home more, he was affectionate, and the ghost of Sloane seemed to have finally vanished from their lives.
The sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway caught her attention.
Emily sat up, shading her eyes with her hand. It was Ryan's black SUV, arriving hours earlier than usual. A wide smile spread across her face. She reached for her silk cover-up, standing up to go greet him.
But as Ryan stepped out of the driver's side, the passenger door opened.
Emily’s smile froze.
Sloane stepped out onto the driveway. She was wearing casual clothes, her hair pulled back, carrying a designer overnight bag.
Ryan rounded the car, pulling two large suitcases from the trunk.
He didn't look toward the pool; instead, he gestured for Sloane to follow him, and they began walking down the manicured stone path.
They were heading straight for the estate’s private guest house.
Emily’s blood turned to ice. She pulled on her cover-up, her bare feet slapping against the hot stone as she quickened her pace, practically running across the lawn to intercept them.
"Ryan!" she called out, her voice sharp.
Ryan stopped, turning to face her. He didn't look guilty. He looked calm, a master architect overseeing a new addition to his property. Sloane stood half a step behind him, clutching her bag.
"Emily," Ryan said smoothly as she marched up to them.
"What is the meaning of this?" Emily demanded, her chest heaving, her eyes darting between her husband and his mistress. "Why is she here? With luggage?"
Ryan sighed, stepping forward and reaching out. He took Emily’s trembling hand, intertwining his fingers seamlessly with hers. His grip was gentle, but inescapable. "Emily, please. Do not make a scandal where the staff can hear you."
He pulled her gently but firmly toward the door of the guest house. He opened it, guiding her inside. Sloane followed without a word, shutting the door behind them to seal them in the cool, air-conditioned foyer.
"Sloane is going to live here," Ryan announced, his tone as casual as if he were discussing a change in the landscaping. "She can no longer live alone in the city."
Emily stared at him, her mind reeling. "What? What does that have to do with us? She can live anywhere! She can live on the other side of the world, but she is not living on my property!"
Ryan’s grip on her hand tightened, and he took her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles before delivering the final blow. "She is living here, Emily."
Emily yanked her hand free, whirling around to face Sloane. "Are you insane? You think you can just move into my backyard?"
As she glared at the younger woman, Emily’s eyes dropped.
Sloane’s hand was resting protectively over her stomach.
Now without the overnight bag blocking the view, Emily could see clearly.
Beneath the fabric of her loose blouse, there was a small, distinct curve.
A bump that mirrored Emily’s from months ago, back when she was in her early pregnancy.
Emily’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened in paralyzing horror.
Sloane looked back at her. Her expression wasn't smug or mocking. It was devastatingly sincere and loving. She offered Emily a small, soft smile and whispered, "I'm pregnant, Emily."
Emily recoiled, stumbling backward as if Sloane had struck her. She hit the edge of a table, gasping for air. "No," she whimpered, shaking her head frantically. "No, no, no."
She turned to Ryan, tears spilling down her cheeks without warning.
She grabbed the lapels of his suit, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the expensive fabric.
"Tell me you didn't do this to me," she begged, her voice breaking into a gut-wrenching sob. "Ryan, please. Tell me it isn't yours."
Ryan didn't flinch. He looked down at her, his dark eyes entirely devoid of remorse. He placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her to his chest.
"It wasn't in the plans, Em," he said, his voice terrifyingly pragmatic. "But it happened. And there is no turning back."
"You can't bring her here!" Emily shrieked, punching his chest, the gilded cage finally shrinking until it crushed her ribs. "You can't humiliate me like this!"
"I am not humiliating you. You are my wife. You run the main house," Ryan said, stepping back to stand perfectly between the two pregnant women. "But Sloane is carrying my child as well. And I want all my children growing up in the same house. This is how it is going to be."
Emily sank against the wall, sliding down until she hit the cold hardwood floor. She stared at the man she had destroyed her life for, realizing that the happily ever after she had fought so desperately for was nothing but a crowded, inescapable prison.
***
A few weeks later, Emily lay back against the plush pillows of their master bed, her fingers tangled tightly in the dark sheets.
Ryan was positioned between her thighs, his mouth working expertly against her most sensitive center.
The heat of his tongue and the rhythm of his lips drew a desperate, shattered cry from her throat as a brilliant, all-consuming climax rushed through her veins.
Tears spilled from her eyes, hot and bitter, tracking into her hairline as she shattered.
She cried because, despite everything, he had been incredibly attentive.
Since Sloane had moved onto the property, nothing outward had changed; he was even more present in the main house, showering Emily and Charles with affection.
Except for the nights when he slipped out of their bed in the dark, thinking she was asleep, crossing the lawn to the guest house.
But she resolved she would not let it bother her. She was the woman wearing his enormous diamond ring. She was the woman carrying his last name.
Ryan moved up her body, his lips tasting of her release, and pressed a deep kiss to her mouth, capturing the aftershocks of her climax.
Unable to hold the question back any longer, Emily pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. "Do you love Sloane?" she asked, her voice trembling.
Ryan did not speak for a long moment. He looked at her, his expression unreadable, and then he shook his head. "No," he murmured, his thumb brushing a stray tear from her cheek. “You are the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
"Did you ever tell her you loved her?" Emily pressed, her chest aching. "Even if it was a lie?"
"No," Ryan promised, his tone fierce. "I will never speak those words to any other woman. I love you, Emily. Only you, and no one else. It is with you that I want forever. It is with you that I make love. It is with you that I am happy."
A wave of profound emotional relief washed over Emily. She smiled, fresh tears pooling in her eyes. Ryan dried them with his thumb, leaning down to kiss her with profound love and affection.
"I wish you could make love to me right now. I miss having you inside me," Emily whispered against his lips, resting her hands on the heavy, late-term swell of her belly.
Ryan smiled, his expression warm and patient. "Soon, our son will be here," he murmured, kissing her forehead. "And then I can finally make love to my wife again.”