Beatrice’s confession hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, until a commotion in the hallway broke the silence.
“You cannot go in there!” Seraphina Rivers’s voice was shrill. “He is in critical condition!”
“Move, Seraphina, or I will move you,” a lower, fiercer voice commanded.
The door swung open. Isabella Moretti pushed past the sputtering “Public Face” of the company. Isabella looked disheveled from the chaos of the Gala, her evening gown torn at the hem, but her eyes were blazing.
She walked straight to the bed, ignoring Beatrice. She took Malcolm’s cold hand and placed it on her stomach.
“You saw me,” Isabella whispered, tears spilling over. “On the stage. You saw.”
Malcolm looked at her, his hand trembling against the warmth of her belly. The vertigo returned, but this time it wasn’t sickness; it was awe.
“Is it…”
“It’s a boy,” Isabella choked out. “You have an heir, Malcolm. You aren’t just fighting for a company anymore. You are fighting for him. So don’t you dare die on us.”,