My husband’s mistress tried to push me down while I was seven months pregnant.

The first heavy snow of December fell over the Hudson Valley like a clean, silent blessing, blanketing the rolling lawns of Thorne Manor in four inches of pure, unblemished white.

Inside the sprawling second-floor master suite, the atmosphere was a haven of warmth, soft light, and sacred domestic peace.

A roaring fire crackled in the fieldstone hearth, sending the rich, sweet scent of seasoned applewood drifting through the room. The heavy mahogany paneling that Julian had favored had been stripped away, replaced by soft, hand-painted murals of gentle blue ocean waves and soaring sea birds.

In the center of the adjoining nursery sat a magnificent, handcrafted oval crib carved from solid Virginia white oak, fitted with organic linen sheets and a soft, cashmere mobile of stars and silver compasses that spun slowly in the warm draft from the hearth.

I sat in a wide, upholstered rocking chair beside the window, wearing an oversized knit cream sweater and soft wool socks, resting my hands over the enormous, beautiful curve of my belly.

Thirty-eight weeks.

The doctor had estimated that little Alexander—named after my father, Alexander Thorne—would arrive before the week was out.

The nursery door clicked open with a soft, familiar latch.

Marcus Vance walked into the room carrying a silver tray with two mugs of hot chamomile tea and a plate of fresh ginger biscuits that Mrs. Gable, the estate’s veteran cook, had baked an hour ago.

He had traded his tactical gear for comfortable gray flannel trousers and a dark wool sweater, looking completely relaxed, his sharp eyes soft and affectionate as he looked at me.

"Delivery for the Chairman of the Board," Marcus smiled, setting the tray down on the low side table beside my chair.

"Thank you, Marcus," I smiled back, taking a steaming mug with both hands, inhaling the sweet, calming aroma. "How are the markets reacting to the quarterly earnings report?"

"Vance Biologics—or rather, Thorne Bio-Medical Infrastructure—opened twelve percent higher on the New York exchange this morning," Marcus reported, sitting on the wide window seat opposite me. "The institutional investors have completely shrugged off the scandal. The new board of directors was unanimously confirmed, and the clinical trial results for the cellular regeneration protocol were published in The Lancet two hours ago."

He looked at me, his gray eyes shining with quiet, deep-seated pride.

"Your father’s work is officially saving lives, Helena. Three children with rare pediatric neuro-degenerative disorders entered the Phase One program in Boston this morning."

A single, warm tear rolled down my cheek, hot and fast, soaking into the wool of my sweater.

My father had spent twenty years in laboratory cleanrooms, working late into the night while the high-society world mocked him for smelling like chemical reagents and wearing off-the-rack suits. He had built an empire not to buy yachts or host champagne galas, but to cure the illnesses that took human beings before their time.

"He would be so proud of you, Marcus," I whispered, reaching out to gently clasp my cousin's hand. "For being the only man in this family who remembered what honor meant."

Marcus squeezed my fingers, his grip steady, warm, and unbreakable.

"I didn't do it for the family, Helena," Marcus said softly. "I did it for you. And for the boy who's about to wake up in that crib."

Suddenly, a sharp, concussive spasm seized my lower abdomen.

The tea mug rattled against my saucer as my breath caught in my throat with a sharp, ragged gasp. My fingers clamped down onto Marcus’s forearm with surprising, violent strength.

Marcus stood up instantly, his tactical instincts snapping online in a fraction of a second.

"Contraction?" Marcus asked, his voice low, steady, and entirely devoid of panic.

I closed my eyes, riding the intense, tightening wave of pain that pulsed across my lower back, breathing deeply through my nose until the pressure subsided thirty seconds later.