The morning of November 14th dawned quietly over the sprawling estate, sunlight slipping through sheer curtains and settling softly on the marble floors of the master bedroom. Isabella Rossini stood barefoot near the window, her hands trembling slightly as she stared down at the small plastic test she had taken minutes earlier. Two clear pink lines stared back at her, unmistakable and miraculous. After three years of invasive treatments, whispered prayers, and nights spent crying silently so her husband wouldn’t hear, the reality finally arrived. She was pregnant. Eight weeks along, according to the doctor’s last estimate. Joy surged through her so suddenly that she had to sit down on the edge of the bed to steady herself.

In that moment, all the coldness she had endured lately from Maximilian Sterling felt temporary, forgivable, almost irrelevant. This would fix everything, she told herself. Max would smile again. The distance between them would dissolve. Their marriage, once passionate and ambitious, would be reborn. With careful excitement, she planned her evening. Max’s annual company gala was scheduled for that night, a glittering event held in the ballroom of their mansion, attended by the city’s most powerful figures. Isabella decided she would tell him there, privately, before the speeches began.