Isabella Austin's only real fear was that Emily Blair might mean more to Andrew Lane than she herself ever could.

Lost in these anxious thoughts, a sudden wave of nausea twisted her stomach, rising sharply until it caught in her throat. She barely managed to stifle a gag, pressing one hand over her mouth and the other to her abdomen, doubling over as she dry-heaved.

The car was too quiet; every sound she made echoed in the silence.

Emily Blair and Andrew's assistant both reacted instantly, their expressions shifting.

Emily's eyes darted to the rearview mirror, searching for the source of the noise.

She saw Isabella, hand clamped over her mouth, panic etched across her flushed, tear-bright eyes as she turned helplessly to Andrew.

"Andrew..."

Andrew's brow twitched, his gaze sharpening. Gone was the careless posture; he straightened in his seat, clasping his hands together, dark eyes fixed on Isabella.

His voice was low, steady. "Are you pregnant?"

A flush crept across Isabella's cheeks, embarrassment and worry flickering in her gaze. She nodded shyly, biting her lip. "I'm not sure yet. I need to get checked at the hospital."

Andrew's eyes grew darker. "How long since your last period?"

She looked away, voice barely above a whisper. "Two months." Oblivious to the others, Andrew pressed, "So, was it that night?" Isabella clenched her hands, head bowed, and nodded again.

Carefully, she watched Andrew's expression, then reached out, tentative. “Andrew, I'm scared."

He watched her for a moment before finally extending his left hand, taking hers in his warm, steady grip.

"Don't be afraid."

There was a calm certainty in his deep voice, the kind of strength that made promises feel real.

As if that wasn't enough, he added, quietly but firmly, "I'm here."

Isabella's blush deepened. She edged closer to him until their arms entwined, then lowered her head, resting her forehead lightly on his shoulder.

"With you, I feel safe," she murmured.

Andrew simply replied, "Mm."

Emily Blair felt her mind go blank, her usually composed features now clouded with heaviness.

Isabella was likely pregnant with the very boy who, in another life, had been her son.

Andrew's son.

Two months. The timeline matched.

Memories flashed through Emily's mind: Isabella's first days in the Lane household, the night she had drugged both herself and Andrew. Emily, for her own reasons, had let it happen, leaving the two of them alone together.

That must have been the night Isabella conceived his child.

The thought conjured images she didn't want—visions of Isabella and Andrew tangled together in bed. The nausea rose in her throat, threatening to overwhelm her, just as it had Isabella.

She never wanted to judge a child for their parentage, but this particular boy was no ordinary child. Words like "mischievous" didn't even begin to cover it—arrogant, entitled, impossible to control.

Yet no matter what trouble he caused, Andrew was always there to clean up the mess. That was the kind of man he was: loyal, devoted, a father who'd do anything for his child.

But that boy he had taken everything from her, climbing over her own daughter's grave to claim his place.

How could she not hate him?

How could she ever forgive?

Emily's expression shifted, hatred flickering in her eyes before she could hide it.

The very next moment, she looked up-only to meet Andrew's searching gaze in the rearview mirror.