“Come on.” Olivia groans. “Fuck me, Noah.” She grips my biceps and watches me with a desperate expression. The need in her eyes is almost painful.

I press forward, the first few inches of me disappearing inside her.

“Wait . . .”

I pause. “What is it?”

“The condoms. They’re by the bathroom sink. In the drugstore bag.”

Fuck that. “It would feel so fucking good to have you bare.” I groan, pushing my hips up so she can feel my hard length between her legs. “My hard cock sliding into your warm, tight heat . . . Please, baby . . .”

“Noah.” She groans, her head dropping back. “Not until I’m on birth control.”

My stomach drops. Right. Like that’ll help.

“Hurry,” she murmurs with a final kiss to my lips before shimmying down my body until her feet touch the floor.

I inhale a deep breath and head for the bathroom. Stopping in the doorway with my cock jutting straight out in front of me, I catch my reflection in the mirror and don’t like what I see. There’s a haunted look in my eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Noah?” Olivia calls from the bedroom.

“Just give me a minute.” Crushed by rising panic and guilt, I close the door behind me.

Fred’s ominous warnings ring in my head. I thought I’d be able to convince Olivia by now, but I haven’t even managed to broach the subject with her yet, and we’re running out of time. My father’s legacy, Fred Cane’s dying wish, all of Tate & Cane’s employees . . . everything is at stake. I know I have to act, but how?

I grab one of the condoms from the counter. My erection, despite the stress swirling through my brain, hasn’t gotten the memo. I stare down at the little foil packet in my hands.

What in the fuck am I doing? I feel utterly lost and confused. I’m falling in love with Olivia, more with every passing day . . . all while hiding the world’s biggest secret from her. Despite all our hard work, the company finances are so dismal, we’re still barely hanging on. A baby would solve so many problems. Tying up that last loose end of the contract would cement our inheritance and ensure that the board doesn’t sell our company out from under us, leaving us destitute—along with six thousand other people.

But Olivia will never agree to that. Hell, she’ll probably flip out and call off our whole arrangement if I tell her the truth. I’ve been racking my brain for weeks, trying to find the perfect sales pitch that will save everything I care about, and I just keep hitting the same brick wall.

I’ve always been so good with words, and now they’ve deserted me. Even if I knew what the fuck to say, the right moment never seems to come. And I can’t fight off the creeping terror that maybe . . .

Maybe it never will.

Maybe this conversation—this entire situation—really is impossible. Maybe there is no solution.

The thought makes me go numb. Moving on their own, my hands rifle through the vanity’s drawers and cabinets. I don’t know what I’m looking for until my fingers brush against it. My mother’s sewing kit. The little silver case she gave me the year before she died, when she taught me how to sew a button back onto my favorite shirt.

I pull out a needle and look down at its glinting sharp point. I test the end on my finger and feel its bite. A tiny red droplet wells up, grows rounder, heavier, until it rolls down my finger, leaving a vivid trail, but I still don’t move. I just stare stupidly at the stained needle tip. Silver shining through a film of red.

I feel like I’m in a dream—one of those nightmares where you can’t run fast enough, like trying to wade through quicksand. My heart is slamming against my rib cage. What the fuck am I doing? Am I really . . . can I ever even think . . . ?

A gasp of shock pulls my focus to the door.

Olivia stands naked on the threshold, her mouth hanging open. Her wide-eyed disbelief quickly plummets into horror. She stumbles back, bumping into the wall behind her, her hand pressed to her mouth like she’s about to be sick.

I look down at my hands—one holding a condom, and the other, a needle. With a spasm of disgust, I throw the condom and needle into the sink.

“Olivia . . . w-wait, it’s not, I wasn’t . . . !” My voice is hollow, unconvincing even to me.

A sob of pain tumbles from her open mouth. When I look back up, my wife is running away, her lovely face twisted with betrayal.

Not knowing what else to do, I follow her, hoping it’s not already too late . . . and knowing that it is.