Donovan returned five minutes later with a red face and dead eyes.
The room sensed the change.
He sat down slowly.
His gaze landed on Samantha.
She felt cold.
Not from the weather.
From him.
“Interesting news,” Donovan said.
Regina stiffened. “Donovan.”
He ignored her.
His guests shifted uncomfortably.
Donovan lifted his wineglass but did not drink. “Our primary backing group for Briar Ridge suddenly withdrew tonight.”
Leah’s mouth tightened.
Samantha stared at her plate.
She knew nothing about Donovan’s business.
He made sure of that.
Donovan continued, his voice smooth and dangerous. “Apparently, someone raised concerns about Hale Development’s leadership culture.”
A man at the far end cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should discuss business another—”
“No,” Donovan said sharply. Then he smiled. “No, let’s be transparent.”
His eyes stayed fixed on Samantha.
“Tell me, sweetheart. Did you call your father?”
The room went silent.
Samantha’s heart stopped.
“My father?”
Donovan laughed once. “Don’t play stupid.”
Regina whispered, “Donovan, not here.”
But Donovan had already crossed a line, and men like him hated retreat more than disgrace.
“For months,” he said, “you’ve acted like some poor little saint, refusing to help your husband while hiding behind that mysterious family of yours. Now a Whitmore-linked fund pulls out hours before my investor dinner?”
Samantha’s throat tightened.
Whitmore-linked.
So he knew.
Or at least suspected.
“I didn’t call anyone,” she said quietly.
Leah leaned back, watching.
Donovan stood.
“Then why don’t I believe you?”
The guests were frozen.
Samantha felt every pair of eyes on her.
Her baby shifted inside her, and she placed a protective hand over her stomach.
“Donovan,” she whispered, “please stop.”
That plea embarrassed him.
She saw it happen.
His face hardened.
“Oh, now you’re fragile?”
He grabbed his glass and flung the remaining wine onto the floor near her feet. Red splashed across the hem of her dress.
Several guests gasped.
Samantha recoiled.
Donovan pointed toward the floor.
“Clean it.”
No one moved.
Mrs. Bell appeared in the doorway, horrified.
“I’ll get towels, sir.”
Donovan snapped, “No. My wife can do it.”
Samantha looked at him.
Something inside her cracked.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“No,” she said.
It was one small word.
But in that room, it sounded like thunder.
Donovan stared at her as if she had slapped him.
“What did you say?”
Samantha’s voice shook, but she repeated it.
“No.”
Regina rose. “Samantha, don’t embarrass yourself.”
Donovan stepped closer. “You want to humiliate me in my own house?”
“You’re humiliating yourself,” Samantha said.
The silence afterward was terrible.
Donovan’s face changed.
For one second, Samantha saw the real man beneath the expensive sweater.
Not charming.
Not wounded.
Cruel.
He grabbed her wrist.
A male guest stood. “Hey, take it easy.”
Donovan turned. “Sit down.”
The guest hesitated.
Then sat.
That was when Samantha understood something she would never forget.
Most people disliked cruelty.
But many feared inconvenience more.
Donovan pulled her from the table.
“Donovan, let go,” she said.
He dragged her through the kitchen.
Mrs. Bell cried, “Sir, she’s pregnant!”
“Then she should have thought about that before lying to me.”
Samantha stumbled, catching herself on the doorframe.
Her wrist hurt.
The cold hit when Donovan shoved open the back door.
Snow blew in.
The garden stretched beyond the patio, white and silent.
At the far edge of the patio stood an outdoor shower near the pool, installed for summer parties.
A ridiculous luxury.
A chrome fixture against stone.
Donovan pointed at it.
“You want to act filthy? Wash off.”
Samantha stared at him, confused.
“What?”
He stepped closer. “You heard me.”
Regina appeared behind him. “Donovan, this is unnecessary.”
But her voice held no real alarm.
Only concern about witnesses.
Leah stood in the kitchen doorway, arms folded.
Donovan grabbed the edge of Samantha’s wine-stained dress.
“You made a mess. Clean yourself.”
Samantha backed away.
“No. It’s freezing.”
“Then move fast.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“You remember that only when it benefits you.”
A tremor went through Samantha.
The snow landed on her hair, her shoulders.
Her bare arms prickled.
“Please,” she said, hating the word. “Don’t do this.”
Donovan leaned close enough that only she could hear.
“You should have told me who your father was before I married you.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“There it is,” she whispered. “That’s what this is really about.”
His jaw tightened.
“You lived in my house, ate my food, carried my child, and hid a billionaire father from me.”
“I wanted to know if you loved me.”
He laughed, low and bitter.
“Love doesn’t pay debt.”
Then he reached past her and turned the shower handle.
Water exploded downward in a silver sheet.
Steam did not rise.
It was cold.
Mountain cold.
Winter cold.
The kind that stole breath from bone.
Samantha stepped back.
Donovan seized her arm again.
“Donovan!” Mrs. Bell screamed.
He pushed Samantha beneath the spray.
The cold struck her like a thousand needles.
She gasped so hard pain shot through her ribs.
The water soaked her hair, her dress, her skin.
The baby kicked violently.
Samantha cried out, both hands flying to her stomach.
“Stop! Please!”
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