If she was as practiced as those rumors suggested, he would have expected less bashfulness, more assertiveness. She’d been enthusiastic as hell while they’d been making love, which was the part that really mattered, but maybe playing an ingenue was her kink?

Role-play was fine, too, but he hated feeling gullible. He didn’t want to believe he’d fallen for an act when he’d been fully involved and as real as he could be for those few hours.

He didn’t want to question his own acuity when his father and the board were already doing that for him.

Saint’s phone rang. He glanced to see that it was his father and muttered another curse under his breath.

“I’m talking to the lawyers right now,” he said in lieu of a greeting, then rolled his wrist at Willow to get on it. He wouldn’t out Julie for her gambling addiction, but... “I’ll have them threaten a defamation suit if she doesn’t cease and desist.”

Ted ignored that. “Your mother is asking why you have two hundred thousand pounds for a prostitute’s earrings—”

“She is not—”

“But I won’t bankroll another thoroughbred. Make that go away.” His father ended the call.

“Fuuuun...” Saint groaned at the ceiling, crushing his phone in his grip. He was tempted to throw it against the wall.

“Tell Legal to inform Julie that I will pursue industrial espionage charges if she doesn’t keep my name out of her mouth,” he told Willow. He reached for the extra-strength acetaminophen in his desk drawer and swallowed two before he tapped his mother’s number. “Interrupt me in ten minutes with a life-or-death emergency.”

“Mrs. Bhamra? I’m back,” Fliss called over the Bollywood musical playing on the senior’s television.

She was later than usual, having picked up a few things on her way home and detoured to view a bedsit. She loved being here. It was almost like being home with Granny, but it had been more than two weeks. She didn’t want to overstay her welcome.

Mrs. Bhamra had become Granny’s best friend back when the pair had been young widows raising their children on their wages from the lace factory. They had lost their jobs at the same time when the factory had closed but had continued to bolster each other through the rest of life’s ups and downs—job changes and weddings and grandchildren, Granny’s loss of her son and Mrs. Bhamra’s battle with breast cancer.

The pair had had a standing date twice a month where they drank tea and exchanged gossip, romance novels and knitting patterns. Mrs. Bhamra had teased Granny about her belief in psychics, and Granny had complained that Mrs. Bhamra’s curry was too spicy. Otherwise, they’d been stamped from the same mold, or so Granny had always said.

As they’d both aged, Fliss had moved back into Granny’s modest flat while Mrs. Bhamra had moved to the upscale Mapperley Park, where her son had converted a coach house into a sunny bungalow. It was one floor so she didn’t have to climb stairs and had a guest bedroom that her sister used when she visited from Canada. The front window looked onto the landscaped garden where a bridge crossed a pond before its path continued to the steps of the mansion that was the main house.

When Fliss had turned up in the Daily Mail next to Saint Montgomery, Mrs. Bhamra had called to ask if the photograph was really her. Since Fliss had been on the verge of hysteria, realizing she was in far worse trouble than simply losing her job, she’d come as clean as she would have to Granny.

Mrs. Bhamra had offered her guest room, much to the chagrin of her son, Ujjal. He wasn’t 100 percent thrilled to have Fliss here. He knew as well as she did that the paps would figure out where she was eventually, especially now that she was leaving the house to go to work.

The job was janitorial work for an assisted living facility, thanks to Ujjal making a call, but it was a foot in the door. They were desperate for care aids, too. Fliss could attain her certificate with only a few courses, and that would improve her pay. She was actively looking for her own place, planning to be on her own again very soon.

Provided, of course, that this persistent tummy bug was actually a tummy bug and not what she was starting to suspect it was.

“You worked late today,” Mrs. Bhamra said as she muted the television.

“I stopped to buy a few things for dinner.” Fliss shrugged out of the baggie hoodie she wore whenever she went out, adding sunglasses like every poorly disguised criminal on the run in every heist movie. “Let me change and wash up, then I’ll get started.”

“You don’t have to cook for me,” Mrs. Bhamra protested. She often ate at the house with her family or her daughter-in-law brought a plate if it was a gloomy day and Mrs. Bhamra preferred to stay here.

“I want to.” Fliss might’ve been borderline destitute, but she drew the line at imposing on the elderly woman’s family. She ate groceries she bought, sharing as often as she could but mostly subsisting on peanut butter toast.

If her suspicions were correct, she needed to start eating more vegetables and probably get some special vitamins.

“Do you know I’ve been thinking of your grandmother all day?” Mrs. Bhamra mused.

“Oh?” Fliss paused in starting toward her room. “I did a reading this morning. I must have conjured her, and she decided to stay and watch your shows with you.”

“Pfft.” Mrs. Bhamra waved that away with amusement. “I did watch a very nice travel program that she would have enjoyed. The host was some fool traveling around the world. He started at the Eiffel Tower, forgot his sunscreen in Australia, got himself stung by a scorpion in America. Did you know they had those there?”

“Scorpions? No.” Fliss pushed a smile onto her lips, but her heart began thudding so hard she grew lightheaded.

The three cards she’d pulled this morning had all been from the Major Arcana—the Sun, the Tower, and the Fool. They were such a powerful combination, she’d barely functioned all day, trying to work out what they meant.

As if the universe was trying to be subtle. The Fool represented blind faith, but it might as well have been a hand mirror. She was the fool. The Tower indicated unexpected events. It showed a tower being struck by lightning, throwing two people plummeting to the ground. She was definitely in freefall, but she hadn’t meant to cause Saint’s downfall along with her own.

Finally, the Sun indicated the beginning of a new life cycle. Given she would have to reinvent herself after losing the life she’d made in London, drawing that particular card made sense. The fact that it showed a naked baby on a horse was just a coincidence. Surely.

“Oh, Granny,” she whispered as she slipped into the powder room. “Help me. Please, please, please.”

She didn’t know what outcome she was praying for as she unpacked the pregnancy test. It seemed ridiculous to even be bothering. She and Saint had used condoms. Yes, they’d had a lot of sex that night, but they’d used condoms.

Still, her cycle had always been regular as clockwork. She had nursed denial for five days, desperately trying to believe the stress of hiding from the press was making her late. That lateness was making her feel queasy. She wasn’t pregnant.

She knew, though. She knew what she would see.

Positive.

How could such a simple procedure, such a thin pale line, upend her life so completely?

As she sat on the closed lid of the toilet staring at the result, she had to fight the pressure of emotive tears that rose behind her eyes.

She knew she had options. She knew that raising a baby alone was hard. Especially when your income was scant and unreliable. At least her grandmother had had a small settlement from the crash that had killed Fliss’s parents. That had helped keep the wolves from the door, but that was long gone to Granny’s final years of care. Fliss didn’t have that sort of cushion. Aside from Mrs. Bhamra, she didn’t have anyone who cared about her, and she’d already taken advantage of the elderly woman enough.

There were social services to help, she knew, but even with assistance she was in for a long and difficult struggle. Her dream of becoming a fashion designer was firmly down the loo. Even finding the sort of job that would support her and a baby would be complicated, given this awful black mark of stealing she had on her record. Then there was the notoriety of the baby’s father.

In response to all the questions about her, Saint had made a statement that he didn’t discuss his private life in the public sphere, but that wasn’t stopping the rest of the world from not only pursuing but also capitalizing on her mistake. She’d seen those awful videos from his other lover, disparaging her as a lowly housekeeper and a thief. There were memes all over the internet about her now, too.

My retainer went missing. The housekeeper wore it to the dentist, pretending to be me. Now my celebrity crush is asking for earrings. #RichPeopleProblems

It was excruciating.

I’m being punished, Granny, I really am.

Fliss felt as though she was being punished for ever having dreams in the first place. She shouldn’t compound her situation by giving the world more reason to mock her. Bringing a baby into this mess she’d made would be a terrible mistake.

And how would Saint react? Blame her? Maybe he’d accuse her of getting herself pregnant on purpose to come after his money, but she had truly believed she was protected.

He had used condoms.

As the reality of her situation began to take hold, everything in her was folding in on itself. Having this baby would be a huge mistake. A disaster. She could see that clear as day.

But deep inside, she imagined she already felt a physical presence, as though the baby was a living, burning glow. It was the spark of connection to Fliss’s parents, whose loss had left her devastated for years. And Granny, who she missed so badly right this minute her eyes began to leak the tears that were brimmed against her lashes.

If she didn’t have this baby—for any reason—she would mourn its loss as deeply as she mourned the rest of her family. This baby was her family. She wanted a child.