The man wore a black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands in the pockets of his tailored trousers, exuding an innate nobility, as if a deity had descended from the heavens.
His cold, striking features showed no trace of compassion. He strode forward, paused before her, raised his hand, and Scott Cross handed him the documents.
Bernard Jacobson flicked the papers into Vivian Donovan's face.
With a rustle, the test results struck her cheeks and scattered across the bedsheet.
Vivian shot him an annoyed glare, then picked up the sheets and scanned them again. Clearly marked was "positive"—she was pregnant.
A faint, bitter laugh escaped her lips.
For some inexplicable reason, a sharp ache rose in her chest, and her eyes instantly welled with tears.
She had nearly uncovered the trut
