Zoe shuts her eyes again, a small, deliberate movement. And I know it’s intentional. She’s avoiding me. Avoiding this. Avoiding the truth.
I step closer, my boots quiet on the floor, the only sound in the room my steady breath.
She doesn’t open her eyes, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line. She’strying to keep me out, to pretend I don’t matter, but I know her better than that. I know she’s feeling every ounce of this, whether she admits it or not.
She knows what I’m thinking. She knows what this means. She can avoid me all she wants, but I’m not leaving her side until I get what I want. Until I make sure she understands that there’s no turning back now.
The minutes pass slowly, the weight of the moment hanging thick in the air, but I’m not in any rush. I’ve waited this long.
And I’ll wait as long as it takes.
My phone buzzes, breaking the stillness.
I glance down, seeing the name on the screen. It’s my doctor.
I don’t hesitate. I swipe to answer, bringing the phone to my ear. “Yes?”
“Mr. Rusnak,” the doctor says, steady and professional, “we’ve completed the tests on Miss Monroe. She is eight weeks pregnant.”
I don’t flinch at the confirmation. I already knew, but hearing it from him—hearing the clinical, factual reality of it—makes it settle in my chest like a weight. This is real. This is happening.
“Good,” I murmur, my voice cold, detached, despite the storm swirling inside me. “Make sure everything is in order. We’ll need to take the next steps immediately.”
There’s a pause on the other end. I can hear the doctor shuffling papers. “Understood, Mr. Rusnak. We’ll continue monitoring her condition. The results are clear, and we’ll keep her in the best care possible.”
I hang up.
My eyes don’t leave Zoe as she lies there, trying to pretend none of this matters, but it does.
I already know the truth. She’s eight weeks pregnant, carrying my child.
I walk toward her slowly, my footsteps measured, deliberate, my gaze unreadable. The question that’s been burning in my chest finally slips from my lips, low and dangerous. I know the truth, I just need confirmation. In my line of business, the smallest assumption can get you killed.
“Whose is it, Zoe?”
I can see her body tense at the words, and for a moment, she doesn’t react. Her eyes stay closed, but I can feel the weight of the question pressing down on her.
I watch her carefully, waiting for a response. The silence stretches between us.
And then, she opens her eyes, wide and full of disbelief, like she can’t believe I would even ask such a thing.
But I’ve seen her with him. I saw her standing there beside Jason, pretending like everything was normal, like nothing had happened between us. Like none of this had ever happened.
The memory of it stings, and I feel my jaw tighten in response.
“Jason?” I press, my voice low, almost as if the name tastes bitter in my mouth. Actually, it does. Only common sense stops me from ordering his death right now.
Her face flickers, just for a moment, like she’s caught between telling the truth and hiding the reality of it. She flinches slightly, and I can feel it in my gut.
The tension in the room is thick. I want her to deny it. I want her to tell me that she’s mine—that this child is mine.
Finally, she looks at me, her eyes steady, but there’s something quiet about her expression, something that feels more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen.
“I never slept with Jason,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
I feel a weight lift from my chest, something I didn’t even realize I was holding on to until now. Her words settle in me like a promise, something deep and unspoken, like she’s already acknowledging what’s between us.
Her answer is exactly what I needed to hear.
