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I’m pregnant. With Nico’s baby.
The thought still sends a dizzying mix of emotions swirling through me—fear, confusion, a tentative flicker of something that might be joy if I let it. But I don’t. I can’t. Not yet. Not when everything is still so raw and new and terrifying.
We’re having dinner in the smaller dining room, just the two of us.
The formal dining room felt too grand and impersonal, so we’ve taken to eating here instead. It’s cozier, more intimate with its deep burgundy walls and the gleaming dark wood of the table. Usually, I find comfort in that.
Tonight, it feels suffocating.
Seraphina has already been put to bed, her little face soft with sleep as I tucked her in.
I envy her that peace, that blissful unawareness. What I wouldn’t give to close my eyes and drift away, to let the world fade into hazy dreams just for a little while.
But I can’t. The food on my plate seems to mock me, the rich scents turning my stomach. I push it around with my fork, trying to feign interest, but I can feel Nico’s eyes on me. Watching. Assessing. He doesn’t miss a thing, my captor. My…whatever he is now.
I risk a glance up at him, taking in the strong lines of his face, the way his dark hair falls across his brow.
He’s handsome, undeniably so, with those high cheekbones and the jaw that could cut glass. But there’s a hardness to him, an edge that never quite softens, not even in moments like these.
The wine in my glass sits untouched, a deep, tempting crimson. I can practically feel Nico’s gaze zeroing in on that, on the way my hand hasn’t strayed toward the stem all evening. He knows my habits now. I usually enjoy a glass or two with dinner. The absence of that ritual hasn’t gone unnoticed.
Suddenly, it’s all too much. The weight of his stare, the secret clawing at my throat, the roiling nausea in my gut.
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t sit here and pretend like my world hasn’t just been flipped on its axis.
I set my fork down with a clatter, the sound harsh in the quiet room. Nico’s eyes snap to mine, a question in their dark depths.
“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out, ripping off the Band-Aid.
The words hang in the air between us and I watch as shock ripples across his face. For a moment, he’s utterly still, frozen in place as the revelation sinks in.
I brace myself for his reaction, my heart pounding against my ribs. Anger, maybe. Or excitement, that fierce, possessive joy that terrifies me even more.
He’s been obsessed with me for two years, after all. The idea of me carrying his child, of being tied to him in such a visceral, permanent way—I can’t even let myself imagine how that might feel to him.
But he surprises me.
He carefully sets his own fork down and meets my gaze head-on.
“What do you want to do, Katerina?”
Something in me snaps at the sound of my full name, at the careful, measured tone of his voice.
It’s like he’s talking to a skittish animal, trying not to spook me.
“Don’t call me that,” I hiss, my hands curling into fists on the table. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Nico. It’s Kat. Just Kat.”
He doesn’t even blink at the venom in my voice. If anything, he looks annoyed, like my insistence on this point is nothing more than a petty inconvenience.
“And I’ve told you, Katerina, that I prefer your full name,” he says impatiently. “I don’t see why that should change now.”
I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, my chair scraping harshly against the floor. “Because everything has changed, Nico! I’m pregnant. With your child. And you’re still hung up on this…this ridiculous power play with my name?”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath the skin. “It’s not a power play, Katerina. It’s a matter of respect. Of acknowledging the history between us, the significance of what we have.”
A harsh laugh rips from my throat. “Respect? History? Is that what you call stalking me for two years, obsessing over me like some twisted version of a lovesick puppy? Is that the history you want to acknowledge?”
His eyes flash, a dangerous glint that sends a shiver down my spine.
