The tremor in her voice was so convincing that for a moment, even I might have believed her.
Watching her eyes fill with tears, Alexander's expression softened. He settled beside her, pulling her against his chest.
He pressed his lips to her forehead in the exact spot he used to kiss mine. "Don't upset yourself over this. Think of the baby."
"Whether Lauren approves or not, this is your home now. You and our child belong here."
Half an hour later, after Victoria had retired to the master bedroom, Alexander stood alone on the terrace, a glass of thirty-year-old scotch in one hand.
He hadn't drunk in months—not since the night he'd discovered Victoria was pregnant.
He pulled out his phone, scrolled to my contact, and stared at it for so long the screen dimmed.
After his second glass, he didn't call. Instead, he typed a message:
[Tomorrow is Father's 70th birthday celebration. I suggest you make an appearance and behave appropriately. Don't embarrass the family name any further—and stay away from Victoria.]
The following evening, the Blackwood family's annual gala began in earnest.
Alexander arrived with Victoria on his arm. They moved through the room like royalty, accepting congratulations until Edward Blackwood himself entered the grand ballroom.
Only then did Alexander release Victoria's hand, moving swiftly to his father's side to assist with greeting their most important investors.
"Where is Lauren this evening?"
Alexander's expression didn't falter. For once, he actually defended me.
"Lauren wasn't feeling well after her recent hospital stay. She insisted I represent us both rather than disappoint you on your birthday."
Three hours passed, then finally the event reached its scheduled highlight—the annual Blackwood family portrait and gift presentation.
But I still hadn't appeared.
Tension radiated from Alexander as he excused himself from a conversation with potential investors. In a quiet corner, he dialed my number for what must have been the twentieth time that day.
"The number you have reached is no longer in service..."
He tried again. And again. The same automated message taunted him each time.
Just as Edward was about to call the family forward for photographs, a courier in a uniform entered the ballroom.
He carried three distinct packages—each labeled with my elegant handwriting.