While Bianca's plane was still in the air, the Pearson family was celebrating.
Their sprawling, immaculately white estate in Greenwich, Connecticut, was the opposite of Eddie's penthouse. It was old money, or at least, it was designed to look that way.
Tasha, in a silk robe, was lounging on a chaise, scrolling through her phone. Her face was lit by the screen, a wide, triumphant smile on her lips.
"It worked. It worked!" she squealed, holding the phone up. "Page Six, Us Weekly, The Daily Mail… I'm everywhere! My agent has already had three calls this morning. Three! And one is for a feature film."
Across the room, her mother, Camila Pearson, sipped her tea. She was a striking woman, elegant and sharp, with eyes that held no warmth. "Of course, it worked, darling. It was my plan. A baby is the oldest trick in the book. It just required a modern, high-profile update."
"It's not a trick, Mother," Tasha said, pouting. "It's my baby."
"It's our leverage, Tasha. Don't be naive."
A gruff voice came from the doorway. "Don't celebrate yet. This is just the first step."
Stanley Pearson walked in, Tasha's father. He was a thick, imposing man who still carried the air of a man who had spent ten years in a prison cell. He looked at his daughter, then at his wife.
"That bastard Harry Blackwell died in his bed, a wealthy man," Stanley growled, pouring himself a coffee. "His son won't be so lucky. We take his name, we take his reputation, and then we take his money. All of it."
Tasha rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, revenge. But look at this, Daddy, they're calling me the new 'it girl' of New York."
Camila shot her husband a warning look. "Stanley, let the girl enjoy her morning. The plan is working perfectly. Eddie has accepted his 'duty.' His mother is thrilled. The press has bought it. We are in."
Stanley grunted. "What about the other one? The... father?"
Tasha's smile faltered. "Kane? What about him?"
Camila's eyes narrowed. "Kane Rollins is being handled. He likes money far more than he likes responsibility. He's already taken the first payment. He'll keep his mouth shut."
"He's been texting me," Tasha mumbled, suddenly looking less like a "new it girl" and more like a sulky teenager. "He's getting... needy. He says he wants to be involved."
Stanley took a threatening step forward. "He wants what?"
"Stanley, stop," Camila commanded, her voice quiet but sharp as glass. "You will not get your hands dirty. Not when we're this close." She turned her cold gaze to her daughter. "Tasha, you will handle this. Be charming, be vague, and promise him more money. If he becomes a problem, I will deal with him. Permanently. Now, go get ready. You have a 10 AM call with Vogue."
Tasha's smile returned, all traces of Kane forgotten. "Vogue? Oh my god!"
She hurried out of the room, leaving her parents alone.
Stanley looked at his wife. "You're sure you can handle that street rat?"
Camila took a slow, deliberate sip of her tea. "My dear, I handled Harry Blackwell's lawyers for ten years while you were inside. I can handle one pathetic, lovesick boy. He's a loose end. And I," she said, placing her cup in its saucer with a delicate click, "always tie up my loose ends."
The fluorescent lights of the exam room in Houston General Hospital felt sterile and harsh. Bianca sat on the edge of the paper-covered table, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. Her mother, Clara, stood in the corner, her face a mask of worried support.
"Well, Bianca," said Dr. Macy, a kind, older woman with a warm smile. She looked over the chart in her hand. "There is no doubt about it. You are definitely pregnant. Based on your last cycle, I'd say you're about seven weeks along."
Seven weeks.
Bianca's stomach clenched. Her mind, the sharp, analytical one, instantly traced the timeline.
Seven weeks ago. That wasn't the war room. That wasn't the "love letter."
It was the first night. The one-night stand. The reckless, anonymous, champagne-fueled night at the Ace club.
The realization made it all feel so much colder. It wasn't a baby conceived in a moment of deep, emotional connection. It was a baby conceived in a moment of pure, desperate recklessness.
"Now," Dr. Macy said, her voice gentle, "this is your first. Would you like to... hear the heartbeat?"
Bianca just nodded, unable to speak. She felt numb.
Clara moved closer, taking her daughter's cold hand.
Dr. Macy turned a machine on, squirted cold jelly onto Bianca's flat stomach, and pressed a small wand to her skin.
A rush of loud static filled the small room. Bianca held her breath.
And then... thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
It was fast. It was strong. And it was real.
A tear slipped out of Bianca's eye, then another. This wasn't an "it." It wasn't a "problem" or a "complication" or a "mistake."
It was a baby.
It was her baby.
Clara squeezed her hand, her own eyes wet. "There you go," she whispered, a small, sad smile on her face. "There it is."
"A very strong heartbeat," the doctor said cheerfully. "Everything looks perfectly healthy. Now, let's talk about prenatal vitamins and setting up your next appointment."
Bianca didn't hear the rest. She just listened to that tiny, rapid sound.
The ice that had been in her veins since she saw Tasha's picture on the news finally, finally began to melt. It was replaced by a fierce, white-hot surge of love so powerful it stole her breath.
This was no longer about Eddie. This was no longer about heartbreak or betrayal.
This was about her. And this child.
Her hand moved protectively to her stomach.
Eddie Blackwell can have his empire, she thought, the tears still tracking down her face. He can have his fake family. He can have his lies.
He'll never, ever know about you. I will protect you. I promise.