Chapter 19 White Sand, Black Ties.
Chloe’s POV.
I stood in the kitchen doorway longer than I should have, watching the muscles in Liam’s back shift beneath the thin cotton of his T-shirt while he stirred garlic and tomatoes like nothing in the world was burning down. The burner pressed hot against my ribs, Olivia’s message still glowing behind my eyes: Margaret in the Maldives. Two first-class tickets were booked by Liam Astor himself.
I stepped forward, bare feet silent on the marble. “We’re going to the Maldives in six days,” I said quietly. “You bought the tickets the same morning Mia disappeared. Explain.”
The wooden spoon stilled. Liam turned slowly, the easy mask sliding off his face. For a second, he looked almost boyish and caught. Then the billionaire was back.
“I booked them three weeks ago,” he said, voice calm. “A surprise, private island, no phones, no board and no Margaret. Just us after the vote. I forgot to cancel when everything went to hell. That’s it.”
“My grandma’s jet landed there three hours ago.” His jaw flexed. “Coincidence.”
I laughed once, sharp and bitter. “Nothing with your grandmother is a coincidence.”
He set the spoon down and wiped his hands on a towel. “I’ll change the destination tonight. Santorini, Capri, anywhere you want.”
I didn’t answer. I just turned and walked to the guest wing, locked the door and spent the night on the burner researching the resort. Astor shell company. No public booking engine. Only one way in: an Astor name on the manifest.
Morning came too bright. Lucy Astor waited downstairs in a camel coat and discreet security, smiling like we were old friends. The restaurant she chose was small, quiet and old money.
Over poached eggs and black coffee, she dropped the first bomb. “Margaret has early-stage dementia. Two years diagnosed, hidden from everyone but the doctors and me. The episodes are getting worse. She forgets what year it is, then remembers every slight from 1972.”
I set my fork down.
Second bomb... “My father-in-law’s real will, the one Margaret buried even as he was still alive, leaves eighteen percent of voting shares to any legitimate Astor heir born within the next ten years from the date of his death. That clause expires in eight months. That’s why she’s suddenly desperate for a pregnant bride.”
Lucy reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “I like you, Chloe. You keep Liam human. Help me keep my mother-in-law contained and I swear on my own shares, I will block any forced marriage to Kim or anyone else. You and Liam belong together. I see it. Even if he’s too stubborn to admit it yet.”
I left the restaurant with a new ally and a headache the size of Manhattan.
By two o’clock, the entire city knew Seraphina Wolfe was back.
One hundred million followers, waist-length black hair, legs for days and a very public history of warming Liam’s bed two years ago.
Her private jet touched down for Fashion Week and her first post was a throwback of her and Liam on a yacht, with the caption: “Back in NYC and already making magic with my favorite partner @LiamAstor #AstorLuxeTakeover.”
An hour later, the board was salivating. Seraphina wanted to shoot an exclusive content series at the Maldives private island resort: ten episodes, branded stays and millions in free exposure. They voted unanimously. Liam had to personally oversee.
He told me at four. “It’s business, Chloe. One dinner tomorrow to finalize locations. That’s it.”
I followed him into his office and shut the door. “Clause nine of the contract we both signed. No intimate contact with former sexual partners during the engagement period. Remember?”
He leaned back against the desk, arms folded, smirk sharp. “You’re my assistant, not my warden. I make the rules, baby. But I didn’t say I was fucking her, did I?”
He left for her penthouse suite at the Astor Plaza at eight.
I waited until the elevator doors closed, then took the stairs to the parking garage and had Marcus drive me to the hotel. I told myself I was just checking. I lied.
The suite was on the fifty-sixth floor. I used Liam’s master keycard, which I still had from Paris and slipped inside the service corridor. The living room was dim, with candles everywhere. Seraphina wore a backless silver slip that barely qualified as clothing. She handed Liam a glass of champagne, fingers lingering on his.
They talked about angles, lighting and sunset shots. Professional. Then she laughed at something he said and leaned in, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. He didn’t pull away fast enough.
I left before I did something I couldn’t undo. The next day, she showed up at headquarters in a white dress cut down to dangerous territory, photographers trailing. She kissed him on both cheeks in the lobby; flashbulbs popped like gunfire.
I sat through four hours of “content planning.” She called him Lee-Lee, touched his arm every thirty seconds, dropped her pen and bent slowly so the slit in her dress showed everything. My nails left crescents in my palms.
At six, she texted him a keycard photo: Suite 5601. Late-night edits. Bring the good whiskey.
He left his phone on the conference table while he took a call. I saw it. I memorized it.
That night, I waited in the penthouse wearing nothing but his white dress shirt, three buttons fastened and hem brushing my thighs. When he walked in at one-thirty smelling like her perfume, I didn’t speak. I just pushed him back against the kitchen island, yanked his belt open and sank down onto him right there.
He groaned, hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. I rode him angry, nails raking his chest and my teeth on his neck. “Tell me you’re not going to her suite again.”
He flipped me, bent me over the cold marble and thrust in so deep I cried out. “You’re the one I’m inside right now,” he growled against my ear, pounding harder. “Remember that.” We came together, violent and wordless.
He still left twenty minutes later. “Final signatures,” he said, kissing my forehead like that made it okay. The door shut behind him and I stood in the empty kitchen, tasting blood where I’d bitten my tongue.
Two days later, a courier delivered a cream envelope to my desk. Inside it is a positive pregnancy test, a grainy sonogram dated five months ago and Margaret’s handwriting. Then, another handwriting that I can't really place who owns yet, probably a doctor, or even Kim too and that's because they work together.
Kim is carrying the next Astor heir. Announce the wedding at the Maldives gala, or the world finds out tomorrow. The child deserves its birthright.
I walked into Liam’s office and dropped the sonogram on his desk.
He stared at it like it was written in another language. “This is impossible. I haven’t touched Kim in over a year.”
He called her on speaker. Kim answered in tears. “It was after the gala last summer. You were drunk, Liam. You kissed me when I came knocking on your door to give you a file. You started kissing me right when you opened the door for me in the hallway and said you missed me. We ended up on the parlor couch. I have photos.”
I remembered the photo she’d once sent me, Liam kissing her neck, eyes closed, clearly wasted. My stomach turned.
Liam’s face went grey. “We’re doing a paternity test. Today.” Kim sobbed harder. “I knew you’d say that and I am not ready, or rather, I will not do that. I know you will not believe me, Liam. It is my God that will judge you, Liam and come and take full responsibility for your actions."
Liam got angrier and ended the call on her ear, but she's not agreeing to go for a paternity test.
After something that seemed to be like a full day, but just an hour after their call ended, Kim tested him with, "Fine. But I’m scared, Liam. I’ll only do it at my clinic. I’ll text the address.”
Three hours later, he came back waving an envelope. “It’s positive,” he said, voice hollow. “Ninety-nine point nine percent.”
I stared at him across the living room. The Maldives tickets sat on the counter like a bomb counting down.
“Then I guess congratulations are in order, Mr. Astor,” I said, ice in every syllable. “Looks like you’re getting your heir after all.”
I walked out. The elevator doors closed on his stunned face.
In the lobby, I pulled the burner from my bra. Voss’s last message glowed... just at the right time and I think time is not going to dull it.
"Jet leaves in three hours. Door’s open."
I stepped into the night, tears finally falling and whispered to the city lights, “Checkmate, Margaret.” The Maldives trip was now inevitable and I had no idea if I was flying into a celebration, a war, or the end of everything.