Alejandro did not release the baby’s finger.

Our son stared at him with the solemn expression of a tiny judge.

Then he frowned.

Exactly like Alejandro.

I almost laughed.

Wrong moment.

“Sofia.”

Alejandro’s voice dropped.

“Answer me.”

I tightened my arms around the baby.

“What exactly do you want to know?”

His eyes narrowed.

“Who his father is.”

“You already agreed not to ask.”

“That was before he started looking like me.”

I swallowed.

Alejandro glanced at the small scar beside his own thumb.

Then at me.

Something clicked behind his eyes.

“The Imperial Hotel.”

I said nothing.

His face changed.

“You were there.”

“Yes.”

“What floor?”

“Twenty-seven.”

His fingers loosened from the baby’s hand.

“What room?”

I remembered the storm hitting the windows.

The emergency lights.

The injured stranger whose shirt had been stained with blood after someone followed him into the hotel parking garage.

“2718.”

Alejandro went completely still.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then he asked:

“What color was the card I left?”

“Black.”

“What was written on the back?”

My chest tightened.

I had kept that card.

Not because of the money.

Because of the handwritten sentence:

For whatever tomorrow costs.

I repeated it.

Alejandro staggered backward until his shoulder touched the wall.

“You.”

I nodded.

His face had become almost frighteningly pale.

“You were the woman from that night.”

“Yes.”

“And you knew?”

“No.”

That brought his head up sharply.

“I recognized the scar on our wedding night.”

“And you said nothing?”

“You said you were sterile!”

“I believed I was!”

“So did everyone else!”

The baby startled at my raised voice.

I immediately lowered it and kissed his forehead.

Alejandro watched us.

Then he asked the question that mattered.

“When did you discover you were pregnant?”

“Three weeks after the hotel.”

“And you never looked for me?”

“I didn’t know your name.”

“You had my card.”

“A black card without a name.”

His expression changed slightly.

I continued.

“I went back to the hotel. They refused to disclose guest information.”

He closed his eyes.

Of course they had.

Someone like Alejandro Pei didn’t stay under his legal name when people had been following him.

I looked at him.

“And when my father arranged our marriage, why didn’t you recognize me?”

His jaw tightened.

“Because that night the lights were out for half the time.”

A storm had shut down part of the hotel.

“And you were wearing a mask when I first saw you.”

He looked almost embarrassed.

“I also had painkillers in my system.”

“That explains the romance.”

His eyes flashed.

“This isn’t funny.”

“No.”

I looked down at our son.

“It really isn’t.”

Alejandro walked toward us again.

“Give him to me.”

This time, I did.

He took the baby with an awkwardness that vanished almost immediately.

Our son settled against his chest.

Alejandro stared at him.

Then his eyes reddened.

I had never seen Alejandro Pei cry.

Not at our wedding.

Not when his company lost billions in a failed acquisition.

Not even when his grandfather died.

But now his voice cracked.

“He’s mine.”

“Probably.”

His head snapped up.

“Probably?”

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”

“Ninety-nine?”

“I wasn’t exactly conducting interviews that month.”

His face darkened.

I almost smiled.

“That was a joke.”

“Sofia.”

“Fine. There was nobody else.”

His shoulders relaxed.

Then hardened again.

“We’re doing a paternity test.”

“Good.”

He looked surprised.

“You agree?”

“I’d like to stop calculating facial features every morning.”

The test was done that afternoon.

Alejandro paid for expedited results.

He checked his phone so often that by evening I finally took it away.

“You’re terrifying the laboratory through the screen.”

“They said six hours.”

“It’s been five hours and forty-three minutes.”

“You counted?”

“Obviously.”

At exactly 9:18 p.m., the email arrived.

Alejandro opened it.

Read it.

Then read it again.

Probability of paternity: 99.99%.

He sat on the edge of the sofa.

For once, the man who always knew what to say had nothing.

I sat across from him.

“Well?”

He looked at me.

“The doctors were wrong.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

His expression slowly changed.

“They weren’t.”

I frowned.

“What?”

Alejandro stood.

He walked toward his study and returned carrying an old medical folder.

The report was dated fifteen years earlier.

His childhood injury.

Multiple surgeries.

A specialist’s conclusion.

Severe reproductive impairment.

But I noticed something.

“Where does it say sterile?”

Alejandro pointed.

“There.”

I read the sentence.

Then looked at him.

“It says natural conception is considered highly unlikely.”

“Yes.”

“That isn’t the same as impossible.”

His face went blank.

Apparently the president of a multinational corporation had built half his adult life around a diagnosis he had never questioned.

“Did you ever get retested?”

Silence.

“Alejandro.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t see the point.”

I stared at him.

“So your entire family spent years announcing to society that you couldn’t have children because of one old medical report?”

“My mother was told—”

“Your mother?”

That word triggered another memory.

The Pei family had accepted my pregnancy suspiciously quickly.

Prenatal doctors.

Supplements.

Baby clothes.

No hesitation.

I slowly stood.

“Alejandro.”

He looked at me.

“Why did your mother agree to marry you to a pregnant woman?”

His expression changed.

“She said it would resolve the succession problem.”

“Too conveniently.”

Before he could respond, the door opened.

His mother walked in.

She had apparently been told about the paternity test.

Her eyes fell immediately on the paper.

Then on the baby.

She didn’t look surprised.

That was the problem.

Alejandro noticed too.

“Mother.”

Mrs. Pei stopped.

“Did you know?”

Her face remained composed.

“Know what?”

“That I could have children.”

Silence.

Alejandro stepped toward her.

“Mother.”

She sighed.

“Your grandfather suspected the childhood diagnosis might no longer be accurate.”

My mouth fell open.

Alejandro’s face hardened.

“When?”

“Several years ago.”

“And?”

“He arranged another examination using samples from your annual physical.”

The room became deathly quiet.

“You tested my fertility without telling me?”

Mrs. Pei looked uncomfortable.

“The result showed very low fertility.”

“But not zero.”

“No.”

Alejandro laughed once.

There was no humor in it.

“You let me believe I was sterile.”

“It protected you.”

“From what?”

“Women who wanted the Pei heir.”

His mother’s voice hardened.

“You have no idea how many families were waiting to use a child to control you.”

I almost admired the irony.

“So instead,” I said, “you chose a woman who was already pregnant.”

Mrs. Pei looked at me.

“Yes.”

Alejandro stared at her.

“Why Sofia?”

Her silence lasted too long.

Then she said:

“Because we had been looking for her.”

My heart stopped.

“What?”

Mrs. Pei turned toward me.

“The hotel reported the incident that night.”

Alejandro’s expression changed.

“What incident?”

“The people pursuing you were arrested later. Security reviewed the footage.”

She hesitated.

“They saw a woman enter your room.”

I felt heat rise to my face.

His mother ignored it.

“We tried to identify her afterward.”

Alejandro whispered:

“Why?”

Mrs. Pei looked at the baby.

“Because three months later, during a routine family investigation into suitable marriage candidates, we discovered Sofia Su was pregnant.”

Everything inside me went still.

“You suspected the baby was his?”

“We considered the possibility.”

“You knew before the wedding?”

“We didn’t know.”

Mrs. Pei corrected herself carefully.

“We hoped.”

Alejandro’s expression became dangerous.

“You arranged our marriage because you thought Sofia might already be carrying my child?”

“Yes.”

“And said nothing?”

“If we had been wrong, you would still have had an heir publicly. If we were right…”

Her eyes softened.

“…the Pei bloodline problem solved itself.”

I stared at her.

My father hadn’t simply found an infertile tycoon willing to accept me.

Our parents had been moving us together like pieces on a board.

The next morning, I went directly to my father.

He tried to pretend surprise for approximately thirty seconds.

Then I placed the paternity result on his desk.

His expression collapsed.

“You knew.”

He coughed.

“Sofia…”

“You knew Alejandro might be the father.”

“I suspected.”

“How?”

“Mrs. Pei contacted me.”

I laughed in disbelief.

“And nobody thought to contact me?”

“You refused to name the father!”

“Because I didn’t know his name!”

Dad looked offended.

“You should have explained better.”

I picked up a cushion and threw it at him.

“You chased a pregnant woman up a tree with a sandal!”

“I was emotional!”

“You tried to marry me off twenty-four hours later!”

“And look how well it worked!”

I stopped.

Unfortunately, he had a point.

I hated that.

When I returned home, Alejandro was waiting.

He had put our son to sleep himself.

That was new.

In fact, over the next few weeks, many things became new.

Alejandro stopped pretending the baby was merely part of our agreement.

He learned how to make formula.

He attended pediatric appointments.

He began returning home before dinner.

And the mysterious nights away?

They weren’t lovers.

I discovered the truth accidentally when I followed him one evening.

He entered a rehabilitation center.

Not a hotel.

Not another woman’s house.

A rehabilitation center.

The childhood injury that supposedly caused his infertility had left him with chronic pain.

Twice a week, he received treatment.

He had hidden it because, according to him:

“A Pei president cannot appear physically weak.”

I stared at him.

“You people really solve everything by lying.”

He looked at me.

“You lied about knowing me.”

“I omitted information.”

“That is lawyer language.”

“You’re learning.”

Six months later, our son said his first clear word.

Not “Mom.”

Not “Dad.”

He pointed at Alejandro and said:

“Cold.”

I laughed so hard I nearly fell off the sofa.

Alejandro looked personally betrayed.

“I’m his father.”

“You’re also cold.”

“I am not.”

Our son frowned exactly like him.

I laughed harder.

That night, after putting the baby to sleep, Alejandro stopped me in the hallway.

“Sofia.”

“Yes?”

“Our agreement.”

My smile faded.

“What about it?”

“It says we can terminate the marriage after two years.”

I looked away.

“I remember.”

“We’re approaching two years.”

Something tightened in my chest.

Of course.

Our marriage had begun as cooperation.

Now that Alejandro knew the child was his, he no longer needed a convenient pregnant wife.

“I’ll prepare,” I said.

He frowned.

“Prepare what?”

“To leave.”

His expression became almost offended.

“Why would you leave?”

“You mentioned the agreement.”

“Yes.”

He pulled a document from behind his back.

“I want to terminate it.”

My throat tightened.

“Fine.”

Then he tore it in half.

I stared.

“What are you doing?”

“Terminating it.”

“That’s not legally how—”

“Sofia.”

He stepped closer.

“I entered this marriage believing I was agreeing to raise someone else’s child.”

His eyes softened.

“Then I discovered he was mine.”

Another step.

“But somewhere in between, I discovered something much more inconvenient.”

“What?”

“That I don’t want a contractual wife.”

My heart began pounding.

“What do you want?”

Alejandro looked embarrassed.

It was rare enough that I almost treasured it.

“You.”

I blinked.

“That sounded painful.”

“It was.”

I smiled.

He took my hand.

“I don’t know how to be romantic.”

“I noticed.”

“I work too much.”

“Yes.”

“I’m difficult.”

“Extremely.”

“And apparently my entire family conspires behind my back.”

“Mine too.”

“So…”

He looked toward the nursery.

“Perhaps we’re compatible.”

I laughed.

“That is your confession?”

“I prepared a longer one.”

“Where?”

“In my study.”

“How many pages?”

“Seven.”

“Absolutely not.”

I grabbed his collar and kissed him before he could begin presenting exhibits.

A year later, at our anniversary dinner, my father raised his glass and proudly announced:

“I always knew this marriage was perfect.”

I threw a bread roll at him.

Mrs. Pei pretended not to see.

Alejandro leaned toward me.

“Violence at dinner?”

“Family tradition.”

Our son sat between us, wearing Alejandro’s exact serious expression.

The supposedly sterile man looked down at the child everyone once believed could never be his.

Then he quietly took my hand under the table.

Our marriage had started because everyone thought my pregnancy solved his infertility.

The truth was much simpler.

Alejandro had never been completely sterile.

And the stranger I was too afraid to name had been my husband all along.