The world seemed to stop. Andrey stared at her, expression unreadable, then his lips curved into a hollow, disbelieving laugh.
"Don't joke with me, Isabel." His tone was sharp like a blade dragged slowly across skin.
"I'm not lying," she said softly. "I'm carrying your child."
He stood still for a long moment, eyes locked on hers, his breath heavy. Then, slowly, that laugh came again—quiet, bitter.
"You really do know how to ruin everything, don't you?"
Isabel shook her head desperately. "I didn't mean to—"
Andrey dragged Isabel to the Erickson family residence, gripping her wrist so tightly she was nearly pulled along. The servants froze when the main doors slammed open, Andrey's heavy steps echoing through the hall.
Count Erickson, his father, looked up from the sitting room, his face hardening.
"What is the meaning of all this commotion?"
Andrey's face burned with anger.
