Page 67 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

I loved Truth Renois.

I loved the way she fought back when the world tried to break her. I loved the fire in her eyes when she told me to fuck off. I loved the softness she tried to hide, the vulnerability she only showed when she thought no one was watching.

I loved her strength. Her stubbornness. Her refusal to be anything other than exactly who she was.

And I was going to be a father.

Not just a sperm donor. Not just a name on a contract.

A father.

The weight of it settled over me like a second skin—heavy, terrifying, and somehow right.

I’d spent my entire life building walls. Keeping people at a distance. Trusting no one. Loving nothing.

And now, in the span of a few months, this woman had torn through every defense I had and made me feel things I didn’t even know I was capable of.

I exhaled slowly and started the engine.

The drive to Winston’s estate was a blur. My mind kept circling back to Truth—her face when I’d told her about the meeting, the way she’d looked at me when she said she didn’t care about the money, only that I came back alive.

She cared.

She actually cared.

And that meant everything.

By the time I pulled into Winston’s circular driveway, I’d locked the emotions away. Compartmentalized them. Buried them deep where they couldn’t distract me from what came next.

Because tonight wasn’t about love.

Tonight was about war.

Winston was waiting on the front steps, dressed in all black, his expression unreadable.

He climbed into the passenger seat without a word, and I pulled back onto the road.

“You ready for this?” I asked.

“I’ve been ready.” His voice was cold, clipped. “The question is whether you’re ready. You’ve been distracted lately.”

“I’m focused.”

“Good. Because if Victor senses weakness, he’ll exploit it. And I’m not losing more money because you can’t keep your head in the game.”

I didn’t respond. There was no point.

Winston didn’t understand what I was fighting for. He never had.

We drove in silence until we reached the safe house where Kaisen and Priest were waiting.

The room smelled like gun oil and cigarette smoke.

Kaisen sat at the table, cleaning a Glock with methodical precision. Priest leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his expression grim.

“About time,” Kaisen muttered, not looking up.

“We’ve got an hour,” I said, closing the door behind us. “Let’s go over this one more time.”