Chapter 30: A Very Warm Sleeping Bag

The milk arrived steaming in a porcelain cup. Cora drank it obediently—Japanese fresh milk was the only thing that didn’t turn her stomach these days.

Juice? Only that tart Australian finger-lime blend worked.

Water? Somehow her body would accept Fiji and almost nothing else.

She hadn’t planned on becoming fussy, but pregnancy had opinions. Luckily, the Watsons could bankroll them. Still, a treacherous thought slipped out: Please don’t let the baby inherit his father’s picky mouth.

Across the table, Julian didn’t look up, but his voice slid in, dry and certain. “My child should take after me. If that includes being particular, the Watsons can afford it.”

Cora nearly choked on the last sip. Does he live inside my skull?

Julian dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin. “You’ll focus on etiquette this week. The Korean chairman and his wife arrive soon. As my wife, you’ll be there to receive them. We won’t lose face. No office for you until this is handled.”

“Got it,” she said, small and flat.

After he left, the staff cleared the table. Cora set her jaw. Piano, dining protocol, all of it—she’d learn. If this was her life now, she’d at least do it well.

She waved the others to dinner, curled into the hanging chair with a book, and… promptly drifted off. From the upstairs window, Julian pulled the curtain and found her there—knees tucked, hair mussed, fast asleep like a drowsy cat. He didn’t stop looking.

Austin’s briefing wound down. “Anything else, Mr. Watson?”

“That’s all,” Julian said, eyes still on the swing. “Early start tomorrow. We need to close with Alders.”

Austin left. Julian went downstairs, silenced the maids with a gesture, and slid his arms beneath Cora.

She was so light it startled him. She melted against his chest with a small, contented sigh.

If only you looked at me like that awake.

Upstairs, she nuzzled closer on instinct, her face pressed to the solid warmth of him. One part of his body reacted immediately. He stilled, jaw flexing. Little witch.

“Mom…” she murmured, small and wounded in her sleep. The sound punched straight through his ribcage. What had her dreams done to her?

He set her gently on the bed, watched until her breathing evened, then showered. When he stepped back out, she was burrowed cuddly in the duvet, deeply asleep.

He should’ve gone to his own room. Instead he circled to the other side and slid under the covers. To his surprise, the usual irritation never came. He cut the light. In seconds, exhaustion dragged him down—first real sleep in two days.

Sometime in the night, Cora found the heat beside her and latched on, curling around him like a koala around a hot-water bottle. Julian surfaced long enough to register soft limbs, soft breath, soft everything—and let her stay.

Morning blurred in slow gold. Cora woke loose and blissed, stretched, and frowned at the rumpled, empty space. Weird. I swear there was a huge heating pad here. Probably Aunt Zhang, tucking a hot bottle near her when she’d kicked the blanket off. That had to be it.

She showered, pulled on easy loungewear, and promised herself she’d conquer those “skills” today. After breakfast, the house phone rang.

Aunt Zhang answered, listened. “Madam has just finished eating,” she said, then hung up and turned to Cora. “Master Julian seems to have left a file in his study. If you’re free…”

“I’m free!” Cora was already on her feet. Any excuse to leave the house.

Julian’s study was a gallery: modern art, restrained furniture, not many books—but trophies lined a wall, all sharp angles and engraved glass. She didn’t gawk. On the desk sat a buff envelope. That had to be it.

By the time she came downstairs, the driver had the car waiting. The gates opened, the sedan slipped into traffic, and Cora stared out at the city, dazed.

A week ago she’d been fighting for a seat on the subway. Now she had a driver and a destination that mattered.

Her daydream snapped in half with a jolt. Something slammed the rear bumper. The seatbelt bit her shoulder; she grabbed the handle in time to keep from pitching forward.

The driver swore, pulled over. Cora followed, heart pounding, clutching the envelope.

A wide scrape carved across the back quarter panel—expensive pain. Panic flared. Julian’s car. How do I even—

“Miss, I’m terribly—” A deep voice tried to apologize, then stumbled into shock. The man stepped closer, stared, and his face drained. “Qara? Qara—God—you’re alive.”

He caught her hand like a drowning man.

Cora yanked free, more startled than angry. “Excuse me? You think calling me names gets you out of paying for this?”

SUV doors behind him popped open in a ripple. Two men in suits hustled over. “Mr. Mayer—”

Oh, Cora thought bleakly. A whole team to help stiff me on the repair? Cute.

The tall man lifted a hand to halt them, never taking his eyes off her. Whatever rush had seized him cooled; he fished out a card and offered it with both hands.

“I won’t dodge responsibility,” he said, voice steady now. “I’ll replace the car.”

Cora eyed the card like it might bite. A name. A number.

Liam Mayer.

She looked up, wary. He was tall—Julian-tall—with the same unbothered command she recognized in boardrooms. But his eyes were what snagged her: green, startlingly bright in the sun.

“How should I address you?” he asked, then, unable to stop himself: “Do you… have a twin sister?”