My fiancé bragged to his friends about poking holes in our condoms to trap me at home and steal my director's chair, unaware I was recording every word.

The Crystal Ballroom at the Union League Club was dripping in white orchids, crystal chandeliers, and vintage champagne.

Logan’s mother, Eleanor Vance, stood near the grand piano wearing emeralds and a triumphant smirk. The Vance family had old lineage but dwindling bank accounts, and tonight was supposed to be their grand restoration. Her son was marrying Davenport Group's brightest star, securing a foothold in a multi-billion-dollar empire.

"Darling!" Eleanor cooed as Logan walked up to her, clad in a bespoke tuxedo. "Where is Arianna? The guests from the Tribune’s society column are already here. You said she’d be on your arm by seven!"

Logan adjusted his cuff links, his jaw tight. He hadn't slept. Ever since the board meeting yesterday, an uneasy paranoia had been clawing at his gut. Arianna hadn't returned to their penthouse last night. When he texted her, she had simply replied: *Resting at a hotel. Preparing for tonight.*

"She’ll be here, Mother," Logan hissed under his breath. "She has to be. She's carrying my child. She’s not going to make a scene in front of Arthur Harrison and the board."

Just then, the grand double doors of the ballroom swung wide.

A hush fell over the room.

Arianna entered.

She wore a breathtaking, blood-red velvet evening gown that hugged her curves and left her shoulders bare. Around her neck was a diamond choker that glittered like shards of ice. She did not look like a woman weighed down by early pregnancy or corporate stress. She looked like an empress walking among commoners.

Beside her, holding her arm with polite deference, was not an associate or a friend.

It was Carter Cole—Chicago's most ruthless forensic family and corporate litigator, a man whose presence in any room usually meant someone was going to prison or losing half a billion dollars.

Logan’s heart skipped a violent beat. *What is Cole doing here?*

He quickly pasted on his charm and strode across the parquet floor, his arms outstretched. "Arianna, darling! You look sensational. And Carter... what a surprise. Did you invite our legal counsel to celebrate our happy news?"

Arianna stopped two paces away from him. She did not take his hand. She did not lean into his embrace.

"I didn't invite Carter to celebrate, Logan," Arianna said, her voice ringing clear enough to carry over the quartet's soft strings.

The nearby conversations sputtered and died. Eleanor Vance pushed through the crowd, frowning. "Arianna, dear, what is the meaning of this? The toast is about to begin!"

"Let the toast begin, by all means," Arianna replied, turning her gaze toward the center stage where a microphone stood beside a tiered champagne tower. "In fact, Logan, why don't you take the microphone? Tell everyone what you told Julian and the boys at the Drake Hotel two nights ago."

Logan’s blood turned to liquid nitrogen. The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse in a tuxedo.

"Arianna... what are you talking about?" he stammered, stepping closer, his voice dropping into a desperate, panicked whisper. "Shut your mouth. Whatever you think you heard—"