Unlocking the door, I was met by the rich scent of whatever she was cooking. Coming home to her was far better than coming home to an empty house.
She still went back to her apartment most nights—occasional weekends here, depending on my plans.
Over the past few weeks, we’d fallen into something that looked like routine. She’d been cautious at first, but I’d worn her down.
I paused at the doorway, watching her read the back of a carton. She was so focused her finger traced each line of text. The black apron tied at her back, the tight grey skirt, the bare feet—every detail exactly as it should be.
Once the pregnancy was confirmed and the prenup signed, she could move in. I’d be able to keep an eye on her. On both of them.
“Do you need a hand?” I asked lightly, smiling into her hair when she shook her head.
She never accepted my help in the kitchen, but I needed her in a good mood tonight.
I stepped back and opened my bag.
“I brought you something.”
She set the carton down and turned. When her eyes landed on the pregnancy test, her expression collapsed.
“What did you think would happen?” I murmured, pressing the box into her hand.
When she didn’t answer, I caught her chin and lifted her head until her eyes met mine.
“Don’t worry about a thing. I have a plan.”
The words didn’t seem to reassure her, so I gave her a moment.
“We’ll talk after dinner. Take the test.”
I left her and went upstairs to change, already considering which bedroom to move her into.
I paused at the one opposite mine. It was a good size—larger than her apartment. She’d be grateful.
I whistled as I stepped into my room, tossed my bag onto the couch, and loosened my tie, thinking about the clauses the solicitor had added.
Pregnant or not, Lucia Hart was mine.
I came back down, taking two steps at a time.
The kitchen was quiet except for the steady sound of water running into the sink. Lucia stood with her back to me, sleeves pushed up, washing the dishes. The smell of dinner still lingered—warm and domestic.
Then I saw it.
A white stick tucked beneath a folded paper towel on the counter. The small window was unmistakable.
A grin crept across my face before I could stop it. It had worked. Everything I’d planned, every careful step—it was real now.
“Lucia,” I said softly.
She didn’t answer. When she finally turned around, her eyes were red-rimmed, eyelashes still damp and her expression unreadable.
The air between us shifted. My certainty faltered.
“This is wrong, Laurent. Bringing a child into the world like this,” she said quietly.
My eyes narrowed.
“I have the means to support my child,” I snapped.
