One second. Two. Three.
His expression doesn’t change.
Four seconds. Five.
Bonnie’s hands grip her knees so tight her fingers shake.
Six seconds. Seven.
“Well?” Titan’s voice breaks the silence. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”
Ash looks up from the paper. His eyes find mine first.
Then he says, “Ghost.”
My brain needs a second to process. To understand what that single word means.
Ghost.
Me.
I’m the father.
The baby growing inside Bonnie—the one that’s been causing so much fear and uncertainty and hope—is mine.
Bonnie’s breath releases in a rush. She covers her face with her hands. I can’t tell if she’s relieved, disappointed, or terrified. Her shoulders shake, but I don’t know if she’s crying or just trying to breathe.
“Bonnie?” Ash sets down the paper and moves around the desk toward her.
She lowers her hands. Her eyes are wet, but no tears fall. “It’s not his.”
“No.” Ash crouches in front of her. “It’s not his.”
“Thank God.” Her voice breaks on the words. “Thank God it’s not his.”
She’s not crying about me being the father. She’s crying with relief that it’s not Marcus.
Titan pushes off the wall and crosses to the couch. He sits beside Bonnie and wraps an arm around her shoulders. “You’re okay, baby. You’re okay.”
She leans into him, still shaking. “I was so scared.”
“I know.”
“What if it had been—” She can’t finish the sentence.
“But it’s not.” Titan kisses the top of her head. “It’s Ghost’s. It’s ours. That’s all that matters.”
She nods against his shoulder.
I can’t move. I’m frozen by the window, staring at the woman carrying my child.
My child.
The concept feels foreign. Impossible. I’ve spent my entire adult life learning how to end lives, not create them.
Ash picks up the paper from his desk and hands it to me. “See for yourself.”
I take it. I see percentages and probabilities. But the conclusion is clear.
