I just wait.
Three days later, the tests confirm it.
The child grows within me.
The med-techs coo and fawn and take biometric scans. They babble about “strong development,” “enhanced neural signals,” and “aggressive cellular adaptation.” They think it’s because of my lineage.
They don’t know what’s really inside me.
Or who.
That night, I steal into the biotech lab on the eastern wing. I disable the security feeds. I crack the gene-splicer interface with codes I learned from my mother.
I find the masking tech.
The vials shimmer blue and silver—temporary DNA scrubbers, designed for covert operatives who need to pass identity scans.
They weren’t made for Reaper genes.
They won’t last.
But for now, they’ll hide the truth.
I inject the first dose just below my navel, teeth gritted against the burn. The nanotech floods my bloodstream, latches onto the fetal genome, and begins its work.
I watch the monitor blink green.
That’s all the confirmation I need.
When I return to my quarters, the corridors are empty. The staff whispers behind curtains. Frederick is awake now—furious, red-faced, humiliated. But he hasn’t dared confront me.
Not yet.
Good.
I stare into the mirror again—same gown, same pearls—but this time I lift my chin.
“You’ll never be his,” I whisper, low and fierce.
“Never.”
Not while I still breathe.
Not while there’s a single spark of Kallus’ fire left in me.
Not while the stars remember our names.
CHAPTER 18
AYLA
It’s been just over three months since I gave birth.
The estate has settled into its old rhythms—servants shuffling quietly, my father’s meetings echoing through the stone halls, Frederick prowling like a vulture already bored with his kill. And me? I drift through it all like a ghost in silk, clutching my daughter like a talisman.
Chelsea.
My daughter.
