Chapter 1

Warren Sanchez took a call on the way to my prenatal checkup.

A woman's voice came through the car's Bluetooth.

"I'm back. Divorce her, all right?"

Warren didn't answer. He tapped the button and hung up, offhand about it.

I thought that was a clean, decisive refusal.

Then that same night, he had his lawyer deliver the divorce settlement agreement.

Looking at the restraint held tight in his eyes, I signed calmly and asked, "Do you need me to move out tonight?"

Maybe because he didn't get the tears and the scene he'd braced for, something like surprise flickered across that cold, ascetic face of his—rare for him.

His voice came low and rough. "No need. This place will be transferred into your name tomorrow."

I nodded, obedient.

Warren didn't know that retreating to advance was a trick that never failed, not once, in our line of work.

——

I looked at the hard line of his brow and said quietly, "It's late. Get some rest, you have meetings tomorrow. I'll sleep in the guest room."

With that, I stood to go.

As I passed him, he suddenly caught my wrist.

His brows were drawn low, his lips pressed tight, something between confusion and anger.

He asked, "Freya Sullivan, why aren't you making a scene?"

"If I did, would you call off the divorce?"

Warren stiffened. In the end all he said, low, was, "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you."

I turned my head aside, letting the reddened corners of my eyes show, and murmured, "Mm. I believe you."

The elder Mr. Sanchez living room light stayed on all night.

By the time we went to the county clerk's office the next day to make it official, the compensation section of the agreement had grown by a few more pages.

Once the paperwork was done, Warren did something he'd never done before. He took hold of my hand, his gaze fixed on the slight swell of my belly, and said, "Let's have a meal together."

In the past, I would have been over the moon.

Warren had always been cold, distant, never once the one to reach for me first.

But now I took half a step back, lowered my head, and said, "Mr. Sanchez, that wouldn't be appropriate."

His brow furrowed deeper, as if my distance was something he couldn't get used to.

"Freya," Warren said, an edge of frustration in it, "we're only divorced, not enemies. We can still be friends."

I paused and didn't answer him.

After all, three years ago, he'd told me I wasn't even worthy of standing in front of him.

Taking my silence for agreement, Warren opened the car door for me himself.

Before, he had never done anything like that for me.

I dropped my eyes. "My morning sickness is bad. I can't stand the smell of restaurants."

Warren went still all over, as if only then remembering I was pregnant, and said again, low, "I'm sorry."

I nodded and told him politely, "Then I won't trouble you, Mr. Sanchez. I'll go now."

His lips pressed tighter, and something like anger rose in him.

But looking at my swollen, red eyes, he forced it back down.

"Get in. I'll drive you home."

This time I didn't refuse. Once or twice is retreating to advance; any more than that is just putting on airs.

The whole way, Warren kept starting to speak and stopping.

I knew what he wanted to say.

So I spoke first. "I'll get rid of the baby. I won't put you in a difficult position."

I thought the words were considerate enough. I didn't expect Warren's reaction to be nothing at all like what I'd imagined.

His face darkened, fury flickering in those pitch-black eyes.

"Freya, do you really not want to carry my child that badly?"

I froze for a moment.

Warren was normally a block of cold ice, quiet, rarely showing any feeling.

Apart from in bed, he had never once lost control.