We pass through the library with its two-story shelves and the indoor courtyard, where water trickles from a stone fountain shaped like a roaring bear. Each space feels like crossing into another world—rooms I’ve barely explored in my time here,spaces that belong to him but somehow hold pieces of me now, too.
The halls grow quieter as we ascend to the private quarters. No staff here. No children. Just us and the sound of his measured footsteps against marble, then carpet.
I should be fighting. Should be demanding he put me down. Should maintain what little dignity I have left.
“You know the joke about being carried across the threshold is supposed to happen at the beginning of the marriage, not weeks in,” I mutter, trying desperately to hold on to my sarcasm.
But something about the gentle way he holds me, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my ear, and the knowledge that in six days, everything changes—it all crashes down at once. The joke dies in my throat as emotion rises like a tidal wave.
My chest tightens. My vision blurs. And suddenly, I’m crying—not the dignified, pretty tears of movie heroines, but ugly, ragged sobs that shake my entire body.
Great. Perfect timing, pregnancy hormones. Just when I need my emotional armor most.
I’d read about this—how pregnancy turns your emotions into a roller coaster with no safety bar. But nothing prepared me for the whiplash between sarcasm and sobbing in the span of heartbeats. One second, I’m making jokes; the next, I’m a fountain.
“I’m sorry,” I gasp between sobs. “I don’t know why I’m— This isn’t like me—”
Except it is now. This new version of me that cries at commercials and throws up at the smell of fish. This version carrying a secret that weighs more with each passing day.
Konstantin’s jaw clenches, the muscle flexing as he adjusts his grip, pulling me closer against his chest. His stride slows, as though he’s trying to keep us steady, like he’s afraid I might shatter right here in his arms.
I let my head fall against his shoulder, surrendering to the tears. I cry for the baby I might not keep. For the man who might never know about it. For the impossible choice ahead of me.
His breathing deepens, his brows drawing together in a tight line, but he doesn’t say a word.
It’s these damn hormones.
I cry until his shirt is damp beneath my cheek, until my throat aches with the effort of keeping the sobs quiet.
Through it all, he says nothing. Just carries me, steady and certain, through darkened hallways that lead to the master suite—my room on one side, his on the other, a shared sitting room between.
He pushes open my bedroom door with his foot and carries me inside. The room is bathed in soft lamplight, the bed turned down by some invisible staff member while I was on the roof. He sets me gently on the edge of the mattress, his hands lingering just a moment too long.
This close, I can see the faint shadows beneath his eyes. The day’s stubble darkening his jaw. Small imperfections in a face that otherwise seems carved from marble. Proof he’s human, after all.
He kneels in front of me, bringing himself to eye level. His fingers reach up, hesitant, then brush a tear from my cheek.
“You’re a mess,” he says.
“Thanks. Just what every girl wants to hear.”
His thumb traces the curve of my cheekbone, gentle in a way that makes my heart hurt more than harsh words ever could.
“Why are you crying, Bella?”
Because I’m carrying your child and don’t know how to tell you. Because your mother gave me a choice that’s no choice at all. Because in six days, you become something I understand even less than I understand you now.
“Because you keep acting like none of this matters,” I say instead, my voice raw. “Like it’s just another day in your perfect, controlled world.”
His jaw tightens. “What truth do you think I’m hiding from you, Bella?”
A dozen answers crowd my throat. That this marriage is more than a contract to him, too. That he feels something, anything, beyond obligation. That there’s a future where we don’t have to pretend, where I don’t have to choose between a child and a clean escape.
“That you care,” I finally whisper. “That this means something to you beyond a business arrangement.”
He looks at me for a long moment, something shifting in those storm-gray eyes. Then he leans forward, one hand braced on the bed beside me, the other cupping my face.
“You think I don’t care?” His voice is a rough whisper that sends shivers across my skin. “You think I would go through all this—the contract, the protection, keeping your siblings safe—if I didn’t?”
