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“I can’t do it,” she repeated wistfully. “I thought I could. But it’s all changed. You must see that.’
But he didn’t see anything beyond the wonderful possibility that had just occurred to him. “Cassie, you’re sick.”
“I’m fine. I’ve been feeling funny for days now. It’s this situation. I’m suffocating.”
He stood up, emotions surging in him. He pulled his phone out and dialled his most trusted security chief. He spoke quietly and swiftly, employing the bare minimum amount of words to get his point across, before disconnecting the call and turning all his attention back on the crumpled figure on the floor.
“A doctor is coming to see you.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” she muttered. “I need a head examination for going along with this for so long.”
“Cassandra.” He stopped pacing and stared down at her. “Does it not occur to you that you might be pregnant?”
The silence stretched between them like a never-ending piece of elastic. Her heart turned over at the very possibility, but she was already shaking her head. “No. I couldn’t be.” A frown tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I’m on contraceptives. And we’ve only been together a few weeks.”
Something unpalatable occurred to him. Something he didn’t want to think about, but which he was morally obliged to address. “Could it be someone else’s then?” And what would he do if it was? What would that mean for them?
She pulled a face; every fibre of her being rejected the idea. “No. I told you, there is no baby. And before you, I hadn’t been with anyone since Antonio. And that was a long time ago.”
He was relieved, and surprised. Mostly relieved though. “The doctor will be here soon.”
She nodded, and stared bleakly at the white wall opposite.
A baby.
It wasn’t possible. Was it? Wasn’t the pill almost completely fool proof? She fidgeted her hands and tried to focus on something – anything else. But nothing came to her.
Just the idea of a baby with this man! This man who had said from the outset he’d never marry someone like her; but a man who desperately needed an heir.
So if she was pregnant, then what? Would he marry her even though she was utterly unsuitable, simply to secure his lineage? And would she fall in with such a preposterous plan? It was not, after all, just about what Layth Sati wanted. There were more important considerations.
Such as what she wanted. And what would be best for a hypothetical baby. She didn’t know enough about Takisabad; only what he’d told her. What if it was completely wrong for her? What if she hated it?
Nausea rose inside of her again. Panic.
She lifted herself back to the toilet and heaved until her stomach was empty.
Her body shuddered from the effort and she collapsed, resting her face against the seat. She was hot and cold all over.
Layth, watching from the doorway, felt impotent. It was a horrendous emotion for a man such as him to experience. Perhaps she’d simply exerted herself too strenuously that morning. She had covered a big distance. Though not, according to her own admission, as great as she ordinarily would.
They’d been making love like two crazy, hormonal teenagers. Several times a night for almost two weeks, and before that? The night they’d shared when they were just strangers. How long ago that now seemed! How strange to have touched her body without realising the beauty of her soul.
Might that have been the night they made a child? Despite the fact she was on contraceptives, surely it was possible? He didn’t want to examine his emotions in that moment. They didn’t do him justice; what he felt was beneath him. He owed more to Cassandra.
He stifled a groan and moved over to her. “Take a shower,” he said quietly, running a hand down the side of her face. “You will feel better.”
She nodded. “I think you’re right.”
Cassie put her hands in his, so that he could pull her to standing. He stroked her face so tenderly that her heart stammered in her chest and the world seemed to tip strangely on its side.
She smiled weakly. “I’m sorry about this.”
He lifted her chin, so that her eyes met his. His heart was tapping with a staccato beat. “About what, exactly?”
“The fuss.” Just a pained whisper.
“You cannot help being ill.”
