The helicopter touched down on the rooftop pad at dusk, rotors slowing like a dying heartbeat. Victor stepped out first, already on his phone, barking orders about Tokyo margins. Isabella followed, sunglasses still on even though the sky bled orange. She did not look back at me. I trailed behind, the empty pregnancy-test wrapper crumpled in my fist like a death threat.
The elevator ride down to the penthouse was silent except for the soft jazz Victor always piped in. He clapped my shoulder one last time. "Great weekend, kid. Real bonding." Then he disappeared into his study, door shutting with the finality of a vault.
Isabella waited until the lock clicked. She turned, removed the sunglasses, and the ice in her eyes had thawed into something molten. She held up the actual test. Two pink lines bold against white plastic.
"Positive," she said, voice low, almost reverent. "Four weeks."
My knees nearly buckled. The city lights behind her blurred into streaks of gold and red. "You're sure?"
She stepped close, pressed the stick into my palm. "I took three. All positive." Her fingers closed mine around it. "Yours."
The word hung between us, heavy as the gold watch on my wrist. Mine. Not Victor's. Not some nameless donor from the fertility clinic she had pretended to visit last year. Mine.
She watched my face with the same hunger she wore the night she took my virginity. "Say something."
I couldn't speak. I pulled her against me instead. Kissed her hard, tasting salt and the faint metallic tang of fear. She moaned into my mouth, hands already tearing at my belt. We stumbled backwards through the hallway, shedding clothes like old skin. Shirt buttons pinged across marble. Her dress pooled at her feet. No bra. No panties. Just skin and the faint swell of her lower belly that I had never noticed before.
I dropped to my knees right there in the foyer. Pressed my lips to that barely-there curve. "Hey, little one," I whispered, voice cracking. She threaded fingers through my hair, held me there.
"Bedroom," she ordered, but her tone shook.
I carried her. She weighed nothing in my arms, legs wrapped around my waist, mouth devouring mine. Laid her on the black sheets that still smelled like us from before the Hamptons. Spread her thighs wide. She was already slick, swollen, the scent of her arousal sharper than I remembered.
I licked her slowly, reverently. Every fold. Every sensitive inch. She writhed, hips bucking, but I pinned her down. "Let me worship," I murmured against her clit. Circled it with the flat of my tongue until she sobbed my name. Slid two fingers inside, curled, stroked that spot that made her squirt the first time. She came hard, flooding my mouth, thighs clamping my head like a vice.
I crawled up her body, kissed her deep so she tasted herself and the future on my tongue. Entered her in one slow thrust. She gasped, nails raking my back. I stayed still, buried to the hilt, feeling her pulse around me.
"Feel that?" I whispered. "That's us. Forever."
She nodded, tears glistening. Actual tears. Isabella Hale did not cry. Except apparently when I filled her with the proof of our ruin.
I moved then. Slow, deep strokes that dragged across every nerve. She wrapped her legs high around my waist, heels digging into my ass, urging deeper. We rocked together like the ocean still lived in our bones. I kissed every tear track, licked the salt from her cheeks.
"Come inside me," she begged. "Fill me up. Breed me again."
The words snapped my control. I pounded harder, the bedframe slamming into the wall. She met every thrust, pussy clenching, milking. I came with a roar, pumping endlessly into her willing body. She followed seconds later, walls fluttering, milking every drop.
We stayed locked, sweating, shaking. I rolled us so she lay on top, still joined. My hands spanned her belly protectively.
"What happens now?" I asked the ceiling.
She traced lazy circles through the hair on my chest. "Now we lie. Beautifully."
She explained the plan while my cock softened inside her. Fake miscarriage in six weeks. Public tears. Private grief. She would "recover" in the Swiss clinic Victor paid for every year. I would be promoted again, moved to the London office temporarily. Distance. Safety.
"And the baby?" My voice cracked again.
She lifted her head, eyes fierce. "Stays. With me. Always." A pause. "With us, when it's safe."
I nodded, throat tight. She kissed me softly, rolled her hips, and hardened me again. Rode me slow this time, hands on my chest, belly between us like a promise. Came twice more before we slept, tangled and sticky.
Morning came too soon. Victor knocked at seven sharp. "Board meeting downtown. Wheels up in thirty."
Isabella was already in the shower. I dressed in yesterday's clothes, heart hammering. She emerged wrapped in a towel, hair dripping. Pressed the used test into my hand.
"Trash it in the guest bath. Top floor. He never checks."
I did. Crushed it deep under tissues and cotton balls. The stick disappeared like a secret swallowed.
The day crawled. Boardroom. Numbers. Victor praising my Hamptons "initiative." Isabella sat across the table, serene, her hand occasionally drifting to her flat stomach under the blazer.
Lunch in her office. Door locked. She bent over the desk, skirt hiked. I took her from behind, slow and quiet, hand over her mouth. Came inside while she bit my palm to stay silent.
The afternoon dragged. Five o'clock. Victor called me into his office.
"Close the door."
Sat. He poured scotch. Offered one. I declined.
He leaned back, studied me. "Isabella's been off. Sick mornings. You notice?"
Blood drained from my face. "No, sir."
He waved it away. "Women. Cycles. Anyway." He slid a folder. "London. Three months. Starts Monday. You'll run the European desk."
Exile. Exactly as she planned.
I nodded. "Honoured."
He smiled, but it never reached his eyes. "Good. Family looks after family."
Family.
That night, penthouse. She waited in the dungeon, naked, belly softly rounded in the red light. Collared. Leashed.
"Punish me," she said. "For lying to you."
I did. Paddle first. Twenty strikes until her ass glowed crimson and she sobbed into the bench. Then the crop on her thighs, careful of the belly. She came from the pain alone, untouched.
I entered her after, gentgentlyssionary on the soft rug. Kissed every tear. Every mark. Made love until dawn, slow and reverent, whispering apologies and promises into her skin.
Saturday. Shopping. Maternity disguises hiddare en under regular clothes. Prenatal vitamins in unmarked bottles. She swallowed them in the car while I drove, hand on her thigh.
Sunday. Last night before London.
She cooked. Actual food. Pasta carbonara heavis y with cream. Fed me from her fork like the first night. Then led me to the balcony.
"Fuck me where the city can see."
Bent her over the rail. Twenty-three floors up. Wind whipped her hair. I entered slowslowlynds on her hips, careful now. She pushed back, demanding harder. I gave it. Thrust deep while lights twinkled below. Came inside with her name on my lips.
After, she turned, knelt, cleaand ned me with her mouth. Swallowed the last drops.
"Three months," she whispered. "Then you come home to us."
Monday. Airport. Victor shook my hand. Isabella hugged me chaste, whispered, "Trash checked. He found it."
My stomach dropped.
On the plane, I stared at clouthe ds. Phone buzzed. Photo. The test. In Victor's hand. Caption from her: He thinks it's his.
Relief crashed over me like a wave.
London waited. Cold. Rainy. EmptEmptyingptAn empty in a serviced apartment. Video calls every night. Her belly growis ing. My child.
She sent ultrasound photos. Tiny heartbeat flickering. I cried alone in the dark.
Money tripled. Hundred fifty a month now. "For the baby," she wrote.
I bought nothing. Saved every cent.
Weeks blurred. Her breasts swelled. Nipples dark. She sent videos. Fingers inside herself, moaning my name. Came calling for Daddy.
I jerked off to them in hotel showers, biting towels to stay quiet.
Thanksgiving. Victor hosted. I flew back "surprise." He beamed. Hugged me. "Missed you, son."
Isabella glowed. Four months. Tiny bump hidden under cashmere. We fucked in the coat closet during dessert. Quick. Risky. Her hand over my mouth.
Christmas. Same. She wore red velvet. Looked like sin. Under the tree after Victor passed out, she rode me slowslowlyide the lights. Came with tinsel in her hair.
New Year's. London again. Fireworks over Thamthe es. She FaceTimed at midnight, belly round now. Five months. Kicked on camera.
"Feel," she said. Held phone to skin. Tiny thump against my palm through the screen.
I cried again.
January. Snow in London. Ice in New York.
She texted: Bleeding.
Panic. Flight home immeimmediatelyctor met me at airpthe ort. Face graygreyMiscarriage," he said. Voice hollow. "Clinic in Switzerland. Tomorrow."
The lie.
I held her hand on the private jet. She squeezed once. Secret.
Switzerland. Chalet in the Alps. Snow fallis ing thicthicklyke doctors. Real ultrasound. Healthy heartbeat.
She "recovered" in two weeks. I stayed. Worked remoremotelye made love every night. Slow. Gentle. Then rough when the doctor left. She on top, belly between us, riding until we both shattered.
Back to New York. Victor mournful. Promoted me again. "Distraction," he said.
Co-workers sent flowers. I threw them out.
Spring. London no more. I moved into the secret apartment she bought. Two bedrooms. Nursery hidden behind falsa e wall.
She visited nighat nightctor thought grieof f councounsellinge fucked on the nursery rug. Painted walls soft blue. She came with paint on her thighs.
Summer. Seven months. Belly huge. Breasts leaking. I sucked milk sweet from her nipples while she rode my face.
August. False labolabourre. Hospital. Victor in wis aitthe ing room. I held her hand in delivery prep. She whispered, "Soon."
September. Due date.
Victor in Tokyo again. Perfect.
I drove her to the private clinic upstate. No records.
Labourg. Eighteen hours. She screamed my name, not his. Pushed. Cried. I held her legs, coached, kissed sweat from her brow.
Boy. Seven pounds. Dark hair like mine. Eyes grey like hers.
She held him first. Tears are real this time. "Victor," she named him. After the man who would never know.
Home. Secret apartment. Nanny trusted. Paid triple.
I visited daily. Held my son. Fed him bottles while she slept.
Victor noticed nothing. Thought her "glow" was recovery.
Money flowed. Accounts offshore. For the boy.
Nights. She snuck out. We parented in shadows. Made love quietly so he wouldn't wake.
One night, Victor found the dummy in her bed. Too real.
He searched.
Found the apartment.
But that was chapter nine.
For now, the positive test. The trash can lie. The perfect deception.
And our son, sleeping in my arms, fist around my finger.
The empire waited.
So did the truth.
But tonight, just us. Three hearts beating in one room.
The storm had passed.
Or maybe it gathered stronger.
er.