POV: Phoebe Thorne
Some lies come wrapped in apologies.
Some in roses and ribboned boxes.
And some?
In positive pregnancy tests.
The message comes just after midnight, slicing through the quiet like a scalpel. My phone vibrates on the nightstand — a single buzz, short and sharp. I expect it to be Killian checking on me, or maybe Eva forwarding another classified update she shouldn't technically have access to at this hour.
But it's neither.
An unknown number.
No greeting.
No punctuation.
No shame.
I'm pregnant. It's Jackson's.
Tell your guard dog to back off.
For a moment, I don't move.
I just stare at the glowing screen while my heart drops like a stone in water.
My first thought isn't even anger.
It's disbelief — cold and hollow, blooming in my chest like frost.
My breath catches. I blink twice, waiting for the text to rearrange itself, to correct a typo that explains everything. Maybe it's spam. Maybe someone is playing a sick joke.
