Heat floods my face, half in humiliation, half in anger, and a sprinkling of something else, but I don’t know what it is. I hate the reminder that my body has become a schedule, a project, a timeline he can audit. “I didn’t ask you to memorize my uterus,” I snap.
His eyes darken. “Then stop lying to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You are.” His voice drops, dangerous in its calm. “Tell me the truth.”
The pressure in my chest spikes, the restaurant suddenly closing in around us. The clink of silverware from other tables, the low murmur of conversations, the faint music; everything feels too loud and too normal for what’s happening in our booth.
I shove the menu down. “I need the bathroom.”
“April—”
I slide out of the booth before he can stop me, my chair scraping on the floor, and I walk away with my spine stiff and my pulse roaring.
The bathroom is exactly what you’d expect in a place like this. It’s private, silent, lit like a perfume commercial. Marble counters, gold fixtures, a little couch no one should ever sit on, thick towels folded like origami swans.
I grip the edge of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes are too bright. My cheeks are flushed. I lookguilty. I take a deep breath, willing myself to calm down. It’s not that I don’t want to tell him. It’s that I want one more night where it's just me and him. Where I can pretend this isn’t going to change everything. Where I can enjoy the way he looks at me now without the ticking clock ofpregnanthanging over us like a guillotine.
A knock sounds at the door. Then, before I can answer, the lock clicks. Anthony steps inside and closes the door behind him. I hear him thank someone, probably a waiter who unlocked the door for him. His presence fills the room so completely that it feels like the air rearranges in order to accommodate him. His expression is controlled, but there’s an edge under it, a tautness that tells me I’ve finally hit a line.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, voice quiet.
I lift my chin. “You can’t just follow me in here.”
“I can,” he replies, flat. “And I did.”
My heart hammers. “You’re acting insane.”
His eyes scan down my face like he’s cataloguing every little detail. “You’re acting guilty.”
“I’m acting—” I cut myself off. “You don’t get to interrogate me like I’m your employee right now.”
His mouth tightens. “You don’t get to disappear from the table when I ask you a direct question.”
“I said I’m not pregnant.”
“You said it too fast.” He steps closer, and my spine presses instinctively against the marble counter behind me. His gaze is heavy, commanding. It’s the same look that makes people in boardrooms shut their mouths mid-sentence. “You were different when you were texting me earlier. You were quiet in the office. You’re avoiding me. You’re refusing wine. You’re nauseous. Your period is late.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“You’re defensive.” He’s close enough that I can feel heat radiating from him. “And you’ve been off all day.”
I hate that he notices. I hate that he reads me so easily when I’ve spent months trying to be unreadable to him. “Why are you pressing me so hard on this?” I shoot back. My voice trembles with anger that’s too sharp for how scared I suddenly feel. “Can we just have one night of normalcy?”
He clenches his jaw and says, “No.”
The single word is blunt. Honest.
“Why?” I demand, even though my throat is tight and my eyes are stinging, and I hate myself for it. “Just give me one night, and tomorrow you can press me and dig into what’s in my head and win the fight.” Anthony’s gaze snaps up, fierce. “This isn’t about winning.”
“That’s funny,” I say, the words brittle. “Because it feels like it.” He steps even closer, so close that the front of his coat brushes my thighs. His hand lifts, not to touch me at first, but to brace beside my shoulder on the counter, caging me in without technically trapping me. The heat from him sparks across my skin like electricity, anger and want braided together. “Look at me,” he orders.
I refuse on instinct, staring at the gold faucet like it’s fascinating. His other hand comes up gently and cups my jaw, turning my face toward him, anyway. His grip is firm, but notrough. Controlled. Like he’s holding something precious and doesn’t want to admit it. My breath catches.
“Tell me the truth,” he says again, but softer this time, like the command is still there and the emotion is leaking around it despite his best efforts. My eyes burn. My mouth opens and closes.
I can feel the moment right before the dam breaks, the seconds before the secret stops being mine.
