His Mistress Smiled and Said His Wife Was Already Gone Until the Doctor Asked Him About the Baby

“She’s already gone.”

Celeste Harrow said it with a laugh.

Not a loud laugh. Not the kind that turned heads.

It was worse than that.

It was the soft, satisfied laugh of a woman who believed the war had ended and only one person in the hallway had failed to realize she had lost.

Mara Sloane stood barefoot beneath the white hospital lights, wearing the black housekeeping dress she had collapsed in three hours earlier.

One hand held the wall.

The other protected the slight curve beneath her apron.

Celeste looked beautiful.

Of course she did.

Her cream wool coat probably cost more than Mara’s first car. Her blond hair fell in perfect waves over one shoulder. Diamonds rested against her ears. She looked like she belonged beside Roman Sloane.

Mara looked like she belonged beside a cleaning cart.

That had been the point.

“You really thought he was coming here for you?” Celeste asked.

Mara swallowed.

“He’s my husband.”

“For now.”

There it was.

The knife Celeste never needed to raise her voice to use.

Mara looked toward the closed door of the private examination room.

Somewhere behind it, Dr. Julian Mercer was studying the bloodwork that had made his expression change twenty minutes earlier.

He had asked Mara twice whether she had taken any prescription medication that morning.

She had told him no.

He had asked whether anyone prepared her meals.

Sometimes.

Whether she drank tea at the Sloane house.

Every night.

Whether she had experienced dizziness before.

Yes.

For almost six weeks.

Then he had stopped asking questions and stepped into the hallway to make a phone call.

Mara had not liked the look on his face.

Celeste stepped closer.

“You should listen to me this time. It will hurt less.”

Mara almost smiled.

There had been a time when she thought pain eventually became familiar.

She knew better now.

Pain changed shape.

First it was Roman missing dinner.

Then it was Roman missing three dinners.

Then a week.

Then Celeste answering the private number Mara had been told only family possessed.

Then the staff quietly moving Mara’s dresses out of the master suite because Miss Harrow said Mr. Sloane needed peace.

Then Mara discovering that her key no longer opened her husband’s office.

Then Roman passing her in the hallway while she wore a housekeeping uniform because Celeste had announced that Mara wanted “something useful to occupy her mind.”

Roman had looked at her.

Actually looked at her.

And still walked past.

That was the moment something inside Mara had cracked.

Not because he hated her.

Because he had become too busy to notice whether she was being erased.

She lowered her voice.

“You told me he signed the separation agreement.”

“He did.”

“I never saw it.”

“You’ll receive your copy.”

“You also said he knew about the baby.”

Celeste’s expression changed for half a second.

Only half.

But Mara saw it.

“He knows everything he needs to know.”

A coldness moved through Mara that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

She remembered the twelve messages she had sent Roman.

I need to talk to you.

Please come home tonight.

This is important.

Roman, I’m pregnant.

Please answer me.

She remembered checking each message afterward.

Delivered.

Never read.

At least, that was what her phone showed.

Celeste tilted her head.

“Mara, men like Roman don’t dream about babies. They dream about succession, territory, loyalty, control. You married a man everyone else was terrified of and somehow convinced yourself you found the hidden prince underneath.”

“I found a man.”

“Where is he?”

That landed.

Mara’s fingers tightened against her stomach.

Celeste smiled.

“Exactly.”

Footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor.

The hallway changed before Mara even looked.

Two men in dark coats appeared first.

Then Roman Sloane turned the corner.

At thirty-eight, Roman had built the kind of reputation newspapers described carefully and strangers discussed quietly.

Officially, he owned freight terminals, hotels, warehouses, construction companies and half a dozen properties in Manhattan.

Unofficially, powerful men returned his calls before they returned their wives’.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and dressed in a charcoal suit that made him look carved out of winter.

There was a pale scar near his left temple.

Mara used to touch it when he could not sleep.

He used to close his eyes when she did.

Now she could not remember the last time she had touched his face.

Roman stopped.

His gaze found Celeste first.

Then Mara.

Then the uniform.

Then Mara’s bare feet.

Then her hand over her abdomen.

His expression did not change.

But his steps slowed.

“What happened?”

Celeste moved immediately.

“Nothing serious. She fainted at the house and insisted on making it dramatic.”

Roman’s eyes remained on Mara.

“Why are you barefoot?”

It was such a stupid question that Mara nearly laughed.

“My shoes are in the room.”

“Why are you wearing that?”

Celeste answered.

“She likes working with the staff. We’ve discussed this.”

“No,” Mara said.

One word.

Roman’s eyes shifted to Celeste.

Celeste gave an indulgent smile.

“She’s emotional.”

Mara looked at her husband.

For the first time in months, she decided not to help him avoid the truth.

“I never asked to wear this.”

Silence.

Roman’s jaw tightened.

“Then why are you wearing it?”

“Because somebody told the staff I was no longer the lady of the house.”

Celeste exhaled sharply.

“Oh, please.”

Roman turned.

“Who?”

Mara said nothing.

She didn’t have to.

Celeste took Roman’s arm.

He looked down at her hand.

Something in his face made her release him.

The examination-room door opened.

Dr. Julian Mercer walked out carrying a chart.

He was in his early sixties, silver-haired, calm, and possessed the expression of a man who had spent enough years around wealthy families to stop being impressed by expensive clothing.

“Mrs. Sloane?”

Mara straightened.

Roman stepped forward.

“I’m Roman Sloane.”

“I know who you are.”

Roman did not appear accustomed to that tone.

“How is my wife?”

Celeste laughed softly.

“Doctor, there’s been some confusion. Mara is leaving the Sloane residence tonight.”

Dr. Mercer looked at her.

“Are you a relative?”

Celeste blinked.

“No.”

“Then I wasn’t asking you.”

The laugh disappeared.

Roman stared at the doctor.

“What happened?”

Dr. Mercer looked toward Mara before answering.

“Your wife collapsed because her body is under considerable strain. She’s dehydrated, anemic, and severely sleep-deprived.”

Roman’s face hardened.

“Is she in danger?”

“She’s stable.”

Roman exhaled.

“For now.”

His head came up.

Dr. Mercer continued.

“And there is another matter.”

Celeste moved.

“We really don’t need to do this here.”

The doctor’s eyes sharpened.

“I think we do.”

Mara felt her heartbeat climbing.

“Doctor?”

He looked at her gently.

“You told me earlier that you had not taken any prescription sedatives.”

“I haven’t.”

“I believe you.”

Roman looked between them.

“What are you saying?”

“The initial screen detected traces of a medication Mrs. Sloane has not been prescribed. We’re running confirmation tests before drawing conclusions.”

Celeste went completely still.

Mara stared at the doctor.

“What?”

Roman’s voice turned low.

“What medication?”

“I’m not going to speculate until the laboratory confirms it.”

“Could it hurt her?”

Dr. Mercer hesitated.

“That depends on the amount, frequency, and circumstances.”

Roman stepped closer.

“Circumstances?”