Chapter 1 The Most Inconvenient Miracle
Sloane
The pregnancy test results stared back at me from Dr. Amelia Pearson's manicured hands, the clinical paper somehow weighing more than it should. Positive. Eight weeks, give or take.
"You're absolutely sure?" I heard myself ask, though I'd already calculated the timing in my head—that night last month when Graham had stumbled home unusually drunk from a business dinner. The one night in months we'd shared more than polite conversation across our cavernous Park Avenue apartment.
"One hundred percent, Sloane." Amelia's professional tone softened as she slid into the chair beside me in her office at New York-Presbyterian. "Your HCG levels are textbook perfect."
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. Three years of marriage hoping for this moment, checking pregnancy tests with meticulous regularity until I'd finally accepted the bitter reality of my situation—a marriage in name only. And now, just as I'd resolved to end things, this happens.
"This is literally the worst possible timing," I whispered, pressing my fingertips against my temples. "Graham and I haven't had a real conversation in months."
Amelia's eyebrows arched perfectly. "Are you planning to tell him?"
"I don't know. Maybe." I straightened my shoulders, smoothing down my scrubs. "I need you to keep this between us. Not a word to anyone else at the hospital."
"Of course." Amelia leaned forward, her eyes serious. "But you'll need to make decisions soon. The cardiothoracic chief position opens in six months, and you're the frontrunner. You know how competitive that committee is—they'll use any excuse to pass over a pregnant candidate."
I nodded, though my mind was already made up. Despite everything, despite the glacier that had formed between Graham and me, despite his thinly veiled contempt... I wanted this baby. Perhaps foolishly, I still wanted to salvage whatever remained of our marriage. One last attempt.
"I understand. Thank you, Amelia."
In the corridor outside, I pulled out my phone and dialed Graham's private number. Straight to voicemail. I tried again. Same result. The third time, he actually picked up.
"What is it?" His voice was clipped, impatient.
"Graham, I need to speak with you about something important—"
"I'm busy. In meetings all day." The line went dead before I could respond.
I stared at the phone, the familiar ache of rejection settling in my chest. A notification slid across my screen—the New York Times social column. I shouldn't have opened it, but muscle memory betrayed me.
#Harrington CEO Spotted with Mystery Woman at Met Gala Charity Event#
The photo loaded slowly, pixel by pixel revealing Graham in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, his hand resting possessively on the small of a woman's back. Tessa Reynolds. His college sweetheart, recently returned from Paris. The woman he'd never quite gotten over.
My throat tightened as I scrolled through the images. Graham looking at her with more warmth than he'd shown me in years. The invisible Mrs. Harrington, that's what the hospital staff called me behind my back. The phantom wife of New York's most eligible bachelor, who somehow never appeared beside him at any significant social event.
What am I doing? I thought bitterly. Bringing a child into this cold war of a marriage?
I switched off my phone, decision crystallizing. I wouldn't subject my child to the same emptiness I'd endured these past three years. Better to end things now, before—
My private phone rang, the specialized ringtone for the Bennett family household. I answered immediately.
"Ms. Sloane," our family's long-time butler's voice trembled slightly. "Your father has been taken to Manhattan General. A heart attack. They have him in intensive care."
The cardiac ICU waiting room was eerily quiet when I arrived, still in my scrubs. My sister Celeste stood by the window, her Hermès silk scarf and impeccable St. John suit a stark contrast to my rumpled hospital wear.
"How is he?" I asked, dropping my bag onto a nearby chair.
"Stable for now." Celeste's voice was controlled, but I could see the tension in her shoulders. "The doctor says they got to him quickly. We'll know more in the next few hours."
"What happened?"
"What do you think happened?" She turned to face me, eyes sharp. "Bennett Investment is facing a liquidity crisis. The market's been circling like vultures since last quarter's report leaked. Father's been working around the clock trying to secure emergency funding."
My heart sank. "How bad is it?"
"Terminal, unless we find a major investor within the week." Celeste's gaze was direct, unblinking. "You need to ask Graham to help."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "Celeste, I can't—"
"You can and you will." Her voice dropped an octave. "The Harrington Group has the capital we need. Graham owes this family. Or have you forgotten that it was Father who extended a hand when the Harrington empire was crumbling three years ago?"
I hesitated, the weight of family obligation pressing against my earlier resolution. "Celeste, there's something you should know. Graham and I... we're considering divorce."
The coffee cup in her hand froze midway to her lips. She set it down with deliberate slowness, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
"What? Why?" For once, my unflappable sister looked genuinely shocked.
"It's been a long time coming," I said, my self-respect preventing me from detailing the countless dinners alone, the cold shoulders, the separate bedrooms. "We're just... incompatible."
Celeste's expression hardened as she moved to stand by the window, silhouetted against the Manhattan skyline. "Listen carefully, Sloane. Father risked everything to help the Harringtons when everyone else abandoned them. Now it's time for them to return the favor."
She turned, her eyes glittering with determination. "I don't care what problems you and Graham are having. Fix them. Do whatever it takes to convince him to invest in Bennett. This isn't just about Father's health—it's about our family's entire legacy."
Her voice dropped to a whisper, but the intensity remained. "You have no choice in this matter. None of us do."