The huge iron gates opened to reveal a long driveway lined with trimmed hedges and stone lanterns. Gail had seen the property in photographs before, usually in glossy magazines that praised its “timeless grandeur”. But seeing it here in person was another thing entirely.

The mansion rose in the distance like something from an older century: gray stone walls, arched windows, and tall chimneys. It didn't look like a home, it looked like a fortress. How could anyone live here? How had Maxine lived here?

A driver in a black suit opened her door. “This way, Ms Clinton.”

Her heels clicked against the driveway as she stepped out, clutching her coat tighter around her. The wind around the open grounds blew hard against her cheeks. When they reached the entrance, the double oak doors opened.

And there he was: William Locke.

He stood tall, immaculately dressed, and unsmiling as usual. His gaze swept over her, not in the way men looked at you when they admired you, but in the way someone would properly check an investment he just made.

“Ms Clinton,” he said. It would seem that this was the only form of greeting that he knew.

“Mr Locke,” she replied, matching his formal energy.

He stepped aside and ordered, “Come in.”

The grand foyer was all polished marble, tall mirrors, and chandeliers. The scent of old wood and something that smelled like citrus was in the air. Gail’s eyes caught a large oil painting above the fireplace, a woman with soft features and sun kissed hair. His late wife.

A pang rose sharp in her chest. For him? No, for her sister, for the promise of a family that had been stolen from her. She dragged her gaze away.

“This will be brief,” William announced, already leading her down the hall to a side room. His stride was long and purposeful, forcing her to almost run in order to keep pace with him.

The room was like the foyer, it was spotless and impersonal. A mahogany desk shined without a single paper out of place. Two leather armchairs faced one another. No flowers, no photographs, and no personal clutter. Nothing lived here except cleanliness and order.

“Sit.” His voice continued to carry the tone of command without any courtesy of request.

She obeyed, folding her hands neatly in her lap like a little child about to be scolded. He remained standing for a while longer, watching her, as if he was testing whether she would fidget. Of course she didn’t. Finally, he sat in the chair opposite her.

“I wanted to meet again before the transfer,” he began. His tone was as straight as the edges of the room. “To set expectations.”

Of course. ‘Expectations.’ He might as well have been writing down terms of a business contract in his company's boardroom.

“As I told you earlier, you will live here throughout the duration of the pregnancy,” he reminded her. “It is safer that way and my staff will attend to all your needs. You will use the east wing which has its own entrance, so I expect no intrusion into my private quarters.”

Her lips curved into the smallest suggestion of a smile. “Of course.”

She studied him openly now, noting the rigid set of his jaw, the way his fingers were intertwined like a judge preparing to deliver a verdict. “Speaking of your staff,” she ventured. “Will they know who I am… what I'm here to do?”

“They’ll know just what they need to know, you have no business with that.” he informed her. “Listen, discretion is most important. They are not permitted to ask unnecessary questions.” His eyes held hers in a tight grip without blinking. “And neither are you.”

Gail’s brows lifted. “Do I look to you like someone who goes searching for what doesn't concern her?”

His silence was enough as an answer. Gail cautioned herself, ‘Careful now, you can hide your disdain until you have the upper hand, until you're carrying his heir.’

She released a soft breath, and smiled. “All right. I’ll stay in your east wing, live like a ghost, and follow the rules. You would never even know that I'm here, but what about care?”

“You’ll have access to a nutritionist, a trainer specializing in prenatal care, and private medical services. I'm paying for everything. You'll go for regular check-ups, and in all of this, I require honesty. If anything feels wrong physically, you have to tell me immediately; no delays and no omissions.”

“Understood,” Gail said smoothly.

For the shortest minute, silence stretched out. The air between them felt thin, sharp, like a tight rope. She decided to test it.

“I thought this was a business arrangement, Mr Locke,” she said in a teasing voice, bending her head. “You almost sound… concerned.”

For the first time, something flickered across his face. Not warmth, no, never that. But a flash of something he wouldn't want her to see, a weak emotion. His jaw tightened. “I am interested in the health and safety of my child,” he said. The words landed like steel. “Nothing more.”

“Nothing more,” she echoed, letting the words linger. Her tone was soft, almost amused, and her gaze remained on his face a moment longer than necessary.

He leaned back slightly, breaking the tension with the movement. “You’ll move in tomorrow. My assistant will handle the details.”

She stood up when he did, smoothing her coat. “Thank you for trusting me with something so important.”

“Trust?” His voice cut like glass. “This is not about trust, Ms Clinton. It is about necessity, but yes, I do consider you capable enough for the task.”

His words should have chilled her, and they did. Yet, they didn’t only chill her, they turned on something hot, sharp and unwanted in her chest.

She forced a smile, one she knew he would read as polite acceptance. “Necessity, then.”

He gave a curt nod, already turning toward the door. But she caught it. She caught the half a second flicker of hesitation before he turned. It looked like his fortress wasn’t as cold and impenetrable as he wanted everyone to believe.

Her chest boomed as his assistant came to show her the way out. Cold or not, she was inside his fortress now.

And fortresses always had cracks.