Chapter 1

The pearl stud was still warm from Clara's earlobe when she closed her fist around it. The tiny sphere of ocean-light caught the glow of the hospital suite's brass sconces, then vanished as her fingers tightened. She had unpinned it while Vivienne was still talking, while the blonde woman's platinum bob was still sharp against the midnight sapphire of her gown, while the words were still coming out of that practiced, thin-lipped mouth.

"You saw me leave with him," Vivienne said. "Don't think I didn't notice you watching from the balcony."

Clara did not answer. She pressed the pearl stud deeper into her palm, feeling its small weight, its stubborn reality. Downstairs, the gala hummed through three floors of marble and crystal — the Whitmore Foundation's annual charity night, all champagne and careful smiles. She had slipped away twenty minutes ago, one hand resting on the swell of her belly, desperate for a single breath of quiet. Six months pregnant, her body heavy and unfamiliar, she had wanted only the low round marble table and the plush armchair and the closed door of this private suite.

The door had not stayed closed.

"You're not listening to me." Vivienne took a step closer, her gold stiletto heel clicking against the marble like a metronome. "I've been waiting a long time for this conversation."

"I've asked you to leave this room." Clara's voice came out steady, but she felt her pulse in her throat, a bird beating against a cage. "The suite is private. You shouldn't be here."

Vivienne smiled. It was a small, controlled thing, the smile of a woman who had rehearsed this moment in a mirror. "If you hadn't interfered, I'd be the one beside him tonight. Not you. Never you."

The words landed like thrown stones, but Clara did not flinch. She had heard variations of this for a year now, ever since Julian had brought her to his first board dinner and Vivienne Ashford had looked at her the way a cat looks at a mouse it has decided not to eat yet. The rivalry was an open secret in their circle — whispered behind gloved hands at charity luncheons, traded like currency in the powder rooms of Fifth Avenue penthouses. Vivienne had wanted Julian. Everyone knew. And Julian had chosen Clara, the quiet one, the one with the dark chestnut hair and the small mole at the corner of her mouth, the one who had grown up in her uncle's shadow and learned to keep her own counsel.

"I'm going to call security." Clara moved toward the side table where her phone sat charging, her hand still pressing the pearl stud into her palm. "You can explain to them why you followed me here."

The marble gave no warning. One moment Clara was walking, the next her shoulder was being shoved backward, the heel of Vivienne's hand driving into her collarbone with shocking force. Clara stumbled, her left hip clipping the corner of the low round table. The crystal champagne flute perched on its edge wobbled, caught the light, hung in the air for a terrible half-second.

"Don't." Vivienne's voice had dropped to something near a whisper, all pretense of pleasantry gone. "Don't you dare call anyone. Don't you dare pretend you're the victim here."