Dolores understood the pity in Coral’s eyes, but she didn't offer an explanation. She merely offered a faint, tired smile. Her arrangement with Matthew was a cold transaction; she had no right to police his private life or demand he spend his nights with her. In truth, his absence was a relief.

She stepped into the master suite and paused, taking in the decor. The room was a study in monochromatic luxury—black and white, minimalist and sharp. It was tidy, expensive, and possessed a masculine elegance that felt both imposing and cold.

“This is Mr. Nelson’s room,” Coral said with a smile.

Since they were legally husband and wife, it was only natural they shared a room. Dolores opened her mouth to protest, but the words died in her throat. She couldn't very well explain their "one-month" deal to the staff. She simply nodded and let the door click shut behind her.

Sleep didn't come easily. Dolores propped herself up against the pillows and began scrolling through job boards on her phone. To secure a future for her mother and the child she was carrying, she needed stability.

Her thumb paused on a specific listing. A firm was looking for a translator fluent in the language of Country A. It was a rare request—Country A was a struggling tropical nation, and few people bothered to learn its native tongue. But Dolores had spent eight years there; she knew it as well as her own.

The salary was generous. She quickly filled out the application, attached her resume, and set her phone aside. Eventually, exhaustion won, and she drifted into a restless slumber.

Outside, the moonlight draped the yard in silk. Dolores was deep in sleep, unaware of the white flash of headlights as a Maybach glided into the garage.

The car door opened, and a towering figure stepped out. Matthew strode into the house, his movements steady despite the wine-induced stupor clouding his mind. His throat felt like it was lined with ash. Not wanting to wake the servants, he bypassed the kitchen and headed straight for his suite.

In the bathroom, he downed a glass of water, his Adam's apple bobbing as he gulped it down. Droplets escaped, trickling down his chin and dampening his collar, but he was too far gone to care. He’d had a significant amount of white wine at the corporate dinner, followed by several glasses of red while celebrating Helen’s birthday. Even for a man with his high tolerance, he was feeling the sting of a hangover.

He tossed his jacket onto a chair. Familiar with every inch of the room, he didn't bother with the lights. He navigated the shadows to the edge of the bed and collapsed into the sheets, falling into an instantaneous, heavy sleep.

Dolores stirred slightly as the mattress dipped, but the warmth of the blankets was too enticing. She subconsciously huddled closer to the source of heat beside her and sank back into a deep dream.

Dawn arrived with merciless clarity. The first golden threads of sunlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating the room where Matthew and Dolores lay sleeping like a long-married couple.

Matthew’s eyelids twitched. His head felt like it was being pounded by a dull hammer. He needed a cold shower to wash away the scent of alcohol and fatigue. He tried to shift his weight, but his arm felt pinned.

He rolled over, and his breath hitched. A woman was curled into the crook of his arm.

Her long black hair spilled across his skin like silk. Her face was pale, framed by dark lashes that looked like the delicate wings of a butterfly. Her rosy lips were parted slightly, and her breathing was soft and rhythmic. Matthew’s gaze traveled slowly down to the curve of her neck and the fragile line of her collarbone.

A sudden, sharp impulse flared in his chest—a reaction he hadn't even felt with Helen the night before. He frowned, irritated by his own involuntary response, yet he found himself unable to look away.

In her sleep, Dolores was dreaming of the African grasslands. A fierce lion was stalking her, its golden eyes fixed on her throat. She woke with a violent start, only to find a pair of very real, deep-set eyes staring back at her.

Her mind went white. She scrambled backward, clutching the blanket to her chest as she staggered toward the edge of the bed.

“Wh-Why are you here?” she stammered, her heart hammering.

Matthew looked away with practiced calm, throwing back the duvet. “This is my house.”

Dolores bit her lip. She wanted to argue, but the reality of their situation silenced her. “Weren’t you celebrating your girlfriend’s birthday? Why would you come back here?”

She scrambled out of the bed, putting as much distance between them as possible. Coral had been so sure he’d stay out that Dolores had completely let her guard down. The realization that she had spent the night in his arms made her cheeks burn with a sudden, searing heat.

Matthew ignored her frantic questioning and began unbuttoning his shirt. It was wrinkled and reeked of stale wine, and the feeling of it against his skin was becoming unbearable. He glanced at her—at her panicked expression and wide eyes—and a slow, playful smirk pulled at his lips.

“Could my girlfriend’s birthday really be more important than my wedding night?”

Dolores was speechless. Wedding night? This was a business transaction, a month-long charade. As he pulled the shirt off his shoulders, she spun around, her face flaming. Ever since that night in the hotel, the sight of a man undressing filled her with a visceral, instinctive disgust.

“I... I’m leaving,” she choked out, rushing for the door without looking back.

Matthew didn't stop her. He undid his belt and stepped into the bathroom, the sound of the shower soon drowning out the quiet of the room.

Ten minutes later, he emerged. His dark hair was damp and tousled, and his white bathrobe hung open slightly, revealing the toned, tanned muscles of his chest. He walked to the walk-in closet to find a fresh suit but stopped short.

Tucked between his expensive tailored jackets was a cheap, canvas bag with a bright sunflower printed on it.

He froze. A sunflower? It was so jarringly out of place in his sterile, black-and-white world. He frowned. She was bold enough to move her things into his private space already?

He reached for a hanger, but his sleeve caught the strap of the sunflower bag, knocking it off the shelf. It hit the floor with a soft thud, its contents spilling across the polished wood.

A few basic toiletries, a spare set of threadbare clothes, and a folded piece of thermal paper.

Matthew crouched down to gather the items. His eyes fell on the paper. It was an ultrasound report.

Patient: Dolores Flores. Status: Intrauterine pregnancy. Approximately 6 weeks.

The air in the room seemed to vanish. Dolores was pregnant?