Her throat moves as she swallows, the first crack in her resolve. She stays silent for a beat too long, like she’s running through every worst-case scenario in her head.

Then, finally, she exhales. “Fine. I’ll do this. But afterward, you’re telling me why she hates your family.”

She pushes open the door before I can answer, and I follow her inside.

Nothing has changed in this place. Same outdated wallpaper curling at the edges, same row of dining-room chairs that look like they were scavenged from an estate sale. The couch in the corner might be new, or maybe they just had it reupholstered. Either way, the place still smells faintly of chlorine, antiseptic and lavender.

The receptionist glances up, recognition flashing in her eyes before she schools her expression. “Atlas Timberbridge. It’s been a while. I had no idea you were in town. That’s . . . you’ve always known how to be discreet, unlike your brothers.”

I smile and shrug a shoulder. “Blythe has an appointment.”

“The doctor is with another patient, but Lydia can take her vitals and bring her back now.”

A nurse steps out from the side door—mid-forties, practical haircut, kind eyes. I’ve never seen her before.

“Come on back, Mrs. Timberbridge. Let’s check on that little one.”

Blythe freezes.

Her eyes go wide, snapping to mine, full of confusion and barely masked fury.

Fuck.

I lean in, lowering my voice like a doting husband. “Babe, they’re waiting for you.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to Sanford’s plan. Or maybe I should’ve, I don’t know, told her about it first.

One of the guys created a new identity for Blythe, complete with my last name, a fake marriage certificate, credit cards, even a passport—just in case we need to get her out of the country fast.

Right now, judging by the murderous look she shoots me, she’s debating whether to bolt or kill me where I stand.

After this, I’ll plan your funeral, dear, her glare practically says.

I smirk, take her hand, and try to guide her toward the door, keeping my grip gentle. But she yanks free without a word and strides ahead. I follow her down the narrow hall, watching the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her steps are quick but careful—like she expects someone to jump out at her any second.

Like she’s already preparing for the worst.

The exam room is small but clean. A blood pressure cuff is on the wall, next to a scale. Where Lydia tells her to step on first and then scribbles something. “Go ahead and have a seat,” Lydia says, keeping her voice soft.

Blythe perches on the edge of the exam table, her hands clasped in her lap.

Lydia wraps the cuff around Blythe’s arm and starts taking her vitals. “How far along do you think you are?”