Something burned in my chest. Not anger. Something else. Something complicated I didn't want to name.
She was thinner than eight weeks ago. Collarbones jutting, cheekbones sharp enough to cut. Like life had run her through a meat grinder. But it was still that face. The same one from the stage that night, looking at me like a challenge. The same one in bed, biting her lip and saying, "I want you."
My body remembered.
My lower abdomen tightened. I grabbed the whiskey on my desk and knocked it back, letting the burn kill the rest.
No.
I couldn't let her face, those eyes, make me forget what she did. She torched my engagement. Dragged the entire Visconti name throughthe mud. Handed every old bastard in the family exactly what they needed to bury me. That was a fact.
And this pitiful look she was giving me now? Could be real. Could be theater.
They were all good at theater.
"Sit," I said, keeping my voice flat, and pointed to the chair across from me.
She didn't move.
"I said sit."
"Go fuck yourself." Her voice shook, but that profanity came out crystal clear. "I don't know you. I don't know why the hell you dragged me here, but if you don't let me leave right now, I'm calling the cops."
I went still for a second. Then I laughed.
Beautiful performance. That righteous tone, that tremor in her voice, even the fury in her eyes—it all looked so real. If I hadn't seen this play run a thousand times, I might've bought it.
"Call the cops?" I repeated, found the word amusing. "Yeah. Go ahead. I'll wait."
She dug her phone out of her bag, swiped at the screen a few times, then froze.
No signal.
"Signal jammer," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Security measure. You understand, right?"
She shoved the phone back in her bag and glared at me.
"What the hell do you want?" she asked, voice lower now, but something lit up in those eyes—not fear. Something stubborn. Like a string pulled so tight it was about to snap, but hadn't yet.
What the hell do I want?
I tilted my chair back and studied her.
I'd prepared a whole speech for this. Clean. Conditions, terms, quid pro quo, the whole transaction laid out neat. My lawyer had drafted it. Airtight logic. But looking at her standing there right now, that speech suddenly felt like a waste of breath.
"You're carrying my child," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "I want the baby born."
The room went silent. Her face went corpse white.
I watched her try to breathe, try to pull herself together. Her fingers gripped the seam of her pants and shook.
My chest tightened.
Fuck. Not that. Don't let her get to you.
Then she laughed—not a real laugh, one of those involuntary things people do when they hear something absurd. Her mouth twisted for a second, then it was gone.
"How do you know it's yours?" she asked.
