The hotel room smells like sandalwood and last night’s mistakes. I’m buttoning my blouse when he says, ‘You never asked my real name.’\n\nI freeze. James—the call-boy I’ve seen three times this month—sits on the edge of the bed, calm, like he’s about to discuss the weather. Not identities. Not lies.\n\n‘It’s not policy,’ I snap, voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. ‘Names make things messy.’\n\nHe stands, crosses the room too slowly, and pulls a sleek phone from his jacket. A single tap. My face stares back from a private newsfeed: Lillian Cho Spotted at NeuroSync Gala – Marriage on the Brink?\n\n‘I know who you are,’ he says. ‘I’ve read every article you’ve written. I came to you because I… admired you first.’\n\nMy breath catches. This isn’t just a trick of the trade. This is personal. Dangerous.\n\nThen my phone buzzes. Richard: We need to talk. Celeste’s water broke.\n\nJames reaches for me. My editor texts: Victor Hale just walked into the newsroom.\n\nI have ten minutes before the world explodes. Do I run to the hospital to face my husband and his newborn heir? Do I confront Victor before he ruins me? Or do I let James pull me into his arms—and finally ask what game we’re really playing?