Keith didn't sleep.
The red-circled line burned into his thoughts, repeating with ruthless precision.
Primary Decision-Maker: Patient Only.
It wasn't proof.
It was implication.
And implication was more dangerous than certainty.
By morning, the penthouse felt smaller. The glass walls no longer symbolized dominance—only exposure. Keith stood in the shower, water running cold, replaying every moment from the café. Jasmine's calm. The subtle movement of her hand. The way she had said peace instead of leverage.
Too deliberate to be nothing.
Across the city, Jasmine sat in the waiting room of Riverside Women's Clinic once again.
This time, she wasn't alone.
Not visibly, at least.
Her phone rested face down in her bag, location services disabled, a burner active elsewhere. She had learned quickly—anticipation was armor.
"Jasmine?" the nurse called.
She rose and followed, heart steady.
Inside the exam room, Dr. Nolan reviewed charts, then glanced up with a small smile. "Everything looks normal. Six weeks moving into seven."
Jasmine nodded. "Any changes I should be aware of?"
"Just the usual," the doctor replied. "Fatigue. Sensitivity. Emotionally—it can fluctuate."
Jasmine almost smiled.
If only you knew.
After the appointment, she stepped outside into the daylight, phone already vibrating.
Unknown Number
She didn't answer.
She walked instead—two blocks, three—before ducking into a bookstore. The smell of paper and dust calmed her breathing. She moved through the aisles slowly, pretending to browse while she read the message.
Keith:
Are you pregnant?
The directness startled her—not because of the question, but because of the restraint. No accusation. No demand.
Just a test.
Jasmine typed back.
You're asking the wrong question.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Keith:
Then tell me the right one.
She considered. Then replied.
Why do you think you're entitled to the answer?
She turned the phone off.
Keith stared at the dark screen.
Entitled.
The word struck deeper than he expected.
For years, entitlement had been invisible to him—folded into contracts, assumed in silence, reinforced by results. Jasmine had never challenged it outright before.
Until now.
He slammed his hand on the desk, once, controlled. "Find the doctor," he said to no one in particular.
Then corrected himself. "No. Find the pattern."
That evening, Jasmine returned home with a small paper bag—prenatal vitamins, ginger chews, nothing dramatic. She cooked a simple meal and ate slowly, listening to the sounds of the building settling around her.
Her phone turned back on.
One new message.
Unknown Number:
I won't force this. But I won't pretend it doesn't affect me.
She read it twice.
Then replied.
It doesn't.
The lie came easily.
And it held.
She placed both hands over her abdomen, feeling the quiet certainty there. The secret had shifted—from fragile to firm, from hidden to heavy with consequence.
Keith felt it too, miles away.
Not as knowledge.
As gravity.
Something was pulling his future off-axis.
And for the first time, he understood that whatever Jasmine carried—truth, life, or choice—it was no longer his to command.
The secret had gained weight.
And soon, it would demand space.