The morning sunlight crept across the room like golden fingertips, gently brushing Hazel's face. The warmth stirred her from sleep, and she blinked into the light, groaning softly. Her head throbbed faintly, a dull pressure behind her eyes. The scent of fresh coffee wafted up from somewhere below, rich and inviting, curling around her senses like a promise of comfort.
She pushed the covers off and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, ready to start the day—but as soon as she stood, the room tilted sharply. A wave of dizziness crashed over her, sending her stumbling back onto the mattress.
"What the hell…" she murmured, pressing her fingertips to her temples. Her body felt heavy, sluggish. Her stomach churned, twisting unpleasantly.
After a few minutes, the dizziness faded enough for her to rise again, slower this time. She shuffled toward the bathroom, craving the hot water of a shower to wake her up.
The moment the steam began to fill the room, she peeled off her clothes and stepped inside. The water hit her skin like a balm, and for a moment, she closed her eyes and let herself breathe. But then, without warning, the nausea returned—sudden and violent.
Hazel barely made it out of the shower before collapsing to her knees in front of the toilet. Her stomach clenched, and she vomited everything she'd eaten the night before. The retching left her throat raw, her limbs trembling. She rested her forehead against the cool porcelain, panting.
She stayed there for several minutes, trying to steady her breathing.
Maybe I'm just sick, she thought. Jet lag… stress… change of environment.
But a gnawing unease had started to coil in the pit of her stomach—something that wasn't just physical.
After rinsing her mouth and pulling herself together, Hazel dressed in a loose blouse and linen pants and made her way downstairs. The morning light had filled the mansion's hallways with a soft glow. Outside, she could hear birds chirping, the breeze rustling through the manicured hedges of the estate's gardens.
In the dining room, the long oak table was already set with breakfast. A basket of freshly baked bread, sliced fruits, eggs, and prosciutto filled the table in a spread too luxurious for an ordinary morning. Enzo stood near the window, a cup of espresso in his hand. He looked up as Hazel entered, his expression unreadable.
"You're up late," he said softly, setting his cup down and pulling out a chair for her.
Hazel offered a faint smile as she sat. "Didn't sleep well."
Enzo poured her a cup of coffee, steam rising from the delicate white porcelain cup. He placed it gently in front of her, fingers brushing hers in a quiet, grounding gesture.
"Thought you might need this."
The moment the scent of the coffee hit her nose, Hazel's stomach twisted violently. Her vision blurred at the edges and her head pounded. She gagged and pushed the cup away as fast as she could.
Enzo's brow furrowed. "Are you alright?"
Hazel pressed her hand to her mouth and shook her head. "It's the smell… I don't know why. It just—ugh—made everything worse."
He crouched next to her, concern etched deeply in his features. "You looked pale when you walked in. Did something happen this morning?"
She hesitated, trying to decide if it was worth mentioning. "I… I threw up earlier. Just once, maybe twice. I didn't think much of it, figured it was the flight or stress."
Enzo's eyes narrowed. "And dizziness?"
"Yeah," she admitted. "When I got up, it felt like the room was spinning. I almost fell."
Silence fell between them. Hazel noticed how Enzo didn't look surprised—only thoughtful. She watched as his lips parted slightly, as if forming a question he wasn't sure he should ask.
"What?" she asked softly.
He held her gaze. "Hazel… is there any chance you might be pregnant?"
The words hit her like a punch to the chest.
She blinked. "What?"
"I'm serious," he said, his voice calm, steady. "Your symptoms… they sound familiar."
Her heart thudded in her chest, suddenly far too loud. "No, I—I don't think so. I mean…" Her voice trailed off as she mentally counted the days. Her period had been late, but with everything going on—the move, the stress, the emotional chaos—she had brushed it off. She'd been tired, yes. Nauseous a few times. But she hadn't dared consider this.
Hadn't dared think about what it would mean.
"I don't know," she said finally, voice barely above a whisper.
Enzo stood and began pacing slowly, as if weighing every possibility. "We've been together, Hazel. And we weren't always careful."
Hazel stared down at her hands. "I didn't think—"
"It's alright," Enzo said quickly, kneeling beside her again. "If you are… we'll deal with it. Together."
"But we're barely even past the danger of your world," she said, her voice rising with emotion. "How can we add this on top of everything? What if people find out? What if they use it against you?"
Enzo gently took her hand. "Then we protect it. The same way I'll protect you."
Tears welled in Hazel's eyes, and she hated that they did. "You sound so calm. Like this doesn't terrify you."
"Oh, it does," he admitted with a soft smile. "But not for the reasons you think. I'm not afraid of being a father. I'm afraid of the world we'd be bringing a child into. I'm afraid of people like my uncle, and what they'd do if they thought it gave them leverage."
Hazel let his words sink in. A child. A new life in the middle of everything—danger, politics, power, mafia legacies.
"I need to be sure," she whispered. "I can't just assume. I need a test."
"I'll have one brought to the house," Enzo said. "Discreetly."
They sat in silence for a moment. The air between them was thick with uncertainty, fear, and something deeper—something fragile but real.
Hope.