A way to stay close when Margot insisted on pushing him away.
He clicked through the thermal imaging feeds absently.
Office towers.
Warehouses.
The Galveston beach house Margaret had loved.
Then the Blackwell estate appeared.
The house glowed orange on the screen.
Warm.
Stable.
Seventy-two degrees throughout.
Ted frowned slightly.
The garage should have been connected to the heating system.
But the thermal scan showed thirty-four degrees.
That was odd.
Then he saw something else.
A small heat signature curled into a tight shape on the concrete floor.
Human.
Very human.
And unmistakably pregnant.
Ted’s coffee cup slipped from his hand and shattered against the hardwood.
For a moment he simply stared at the monitor.
Then he moved.
His fingers were already dialing before the shock fully settled in.
First his pilot.
Then his attorney.
Then another number he reserved only for emergencies.
Real emergencies.
The kind that required men who asked no questions.
His private jet could reach Connecticut in three hours.
He would have answers before sunrise.
And God help Preston Blackwell when those answers came.
Back in the garage, Margot noticed something strange.
She had stopped shivering.
That was a bad sign.
Hypothermia worked that way.
First you shook uncontrollably.
Then the shaking stopped.
Then the sleepiness came.
She couldn’t sleep.
If she slept, she might never wake up.
The baby moved again, slower this time.
That fear sliced through the fog in her mind.
Her daughter was in danger.
Margot forced herself to stand.
Her legs buckled twice before they held.
She stumbled toward the corner where Preston stored his golf clubs.
The metal felt painfully cold against her frozen fingers.
She grabbed a nine-iron.
It felt impossibly heavy.
But she lifted it anyway.
She would break the window.
Crawl through.
Cut herself on glass if necessary.
Anything to survive.
Anything for her daughter.
She raised the club.
The door clicked open.
Light spilled into the garage.
Preston stood in the doorway wearing silk pajamas and a look of mild concern.
Behind him, warmth from the house drifted toward her like a promise.
“Margot?” he said gently.
“What are you doing out here?”
She lowered the golf club slowly.
“You must have been sleepwalking again,” he added.
He crossed the garage and took the club from her hands.
His movements were calm.
Tender even.
“You’re freezing,” he said softly.
He pulled her into his arms.
His warmth felt like fire against her numb skin.
“Come inside,” he murmured. “I’ll make you some tea.”
She should have screamed.
Should have demanded answers.
Should have hit him with the golf club she had just dropped.
Instead she let him lead her inside.
Because that was what she always did.
The kitchen gleamed under recessed lighting.
Marble countertops.
Professional appliances.
Everything perfect.
Everything expensive.
Everything fake.
Preston wrapped a cashmere throw around her shoulders and guided her onto a stool.
The kettle filled.
Chamomile leaves measured carefully.
