Isabella, her eyes wide, recovered first. She gripped Liza’s hand, which was still lying limply on the sheet.
“Liza, tell me,” Isabella whispered, her voice laced with fear. “Do you believe this can be a possibility?”
I watched, frozen in place, unable to intervene. I needed Liza to deny it, to look at me and say Alina was a fool.
But Liza didn’t deny it. Her eyes, still pale and tired, fluttered open fully. She looked at Isabella, then at Emilia, whohad gasped audibly when Alina spoke, and then, finally, she looked at me.
She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I missed my period,” Liza whispered hoarsely, her voice weak but steadying slightly. “And the fatigue… the nausea… I thought it was just stress.”
That silent confirmation was the final, crushing blow. My secret night in St. Petersburg had not only created a hostage, but a future I hadn’t wanted, a tie that made the marriage unbreakable. I stared at the woman I had brutalized and claimed, realizing she now held the ultimate power over me.
My mind was a crucible of pure, conflicting heat. The attack on the wedding wasn’t just a political warning aimed at me. It was an attack on my unborn heir. The realization struck me like a physical blow, elevating the chaos from a matter of money and power to a matter of bloodline and survival. Arkady’s rival hadn’t just attacked my wife but had threatened the future of the Lebanon name.
I felt the sudden, desperate urge to throw everyone out, to secure the room, to clean the air, to ensure no one else witnessed this seismic shift in our foundation.
Liza’s voice, though weak, was absolute. She looked at me, her eyes burning with a new, terrible defiance.
“Get them out,” she whispered hoarsely.
The command, coming from the pale, collapsed woman on the bed, was startling. Yet, I instinctively obeyed. The power shift was total, immediate. She commanded, and I, the one who controlled New York’s underworld, moved to secure her privacy.
I turned to the other woman, my voice strained, tight with the need for immediate isolation.
“Emilia, Isabella, Alina. Leave.”
Emilia, always the worried sister-in-law, started to protest. “Roman, she needs immediate care! We should stay–“
“She needs quiet,” I cut her off. I pointed at the door. “Now. This is not a social call. Alina, you stay on the premises. Wait in the staff quarters. I will call you.”
Alina nodded, collecting her instruments with detached efficiency. “Mr. Lobanov, she needs water and absolute rest. No stress. No loud noises. You understand?”
I didn’t answer. I just stared at her until she retreated, followed by Emilia and a tearful Isabella.
The door shut with a soft, final hiss. The engineered silence of the suite rushed back in, broken only by the steady, accusatory beep, beep of the heart monitor. The immense silence amplified the sheer, devastating weight of the news.
I turned back to the bed. I didn’t rush. I walked slowly toward her, the sound of my own footsteps heavy on the thick carpet. The planned interrogation, the cold calculation of the wedding night, to break her walls and force the truth about Arkady, was wiped clean from my memory. It was irrelevant. A suicidal move.
I stopped at the edge of the bed, looking down at her. I was no longer seeing a pawn, or a defiant captive, or a beautiful rival. I saw the mother of my child.
Liza pushed herself up. The movement was slow, deliberate. She did not need my help. Her composure was returning, fueled by the terrifying knowledge she now held. She sat fully, pulling the silk sheets up to her waist. She looked like a battered queen reclaiming her throne.
She looked me dead in the eye, ready for my judgment, ready for my worst strategic move. “Now you know,” she said, her voice stronger, carrying a clear, steel note of defiance that pierced through my shock. “So do your worst.”
I stood there, staring at the woman who had just trapped me, realizing that my worst, the power I wielded, the violence I controlled, was now utterly complicated by the life she carried.
Chapter Fifteen
Roman’s POV
I remained standing over the bed, my suit jacket still tight and smelling faintly of gunpowder. My entire body felt paralyzed, rooted in the sterile silence of the medical room. Pregnant. The word echoed the sickening, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. It was impossible. It was the absolute, catastrophic failure of my plan.
I had planned to interrogate a hostage, a political weapon, a pawn to be manipulated. Now, I was standing over the mother of my child. The planned strategy, the cold, calculated removal of her secrets, was now an attack on my own heir. The rules had not just changed; the game itself had been incinerated.
I looked down at Liza, pale and fragile beneath the vast weight of the silk comforter. My anger, which moments ago had been a clean, focused weapon against Arkady, turned into a chaotic, internal mess.
I had to move. I had to regain some physical control. I lowered myself slowly, deliberately, until I was kneeling beside the bed. It was a strange, unprecedented move for me, a moment of vulnerability I never allowed. But it put me at her level, still commanding, but removing the threatening altitude. It was a physical display of lowering my guard while simultaneously maintaining dominance.
I reached out and took her wrist. I didn’t grip it roughly; I held it firmly, feeling the quick, nervous jump of her pulse beneath my fingers. It was an anchor, a way to focus the chaos in my head. She didn’t pull away. She just stared at me, the question in her eyes.
