Isabella slammed the bathroom door behind her and locked it, her breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps.
Not now. Please, not now.
She pressed a hand to her belly, her other gripping the edge of the sink. Her reflection stared back—pale, sweating, with fear etched into every line of her face.
She'd started bleeding.
Just a little. But enough to send her into a spiral of panic.
This pregnancy wasn't supposed to be complicated. Her doctor had said everything was fine so far. But she hadn't rested properly. She hadn't been eating enough. She hadn't even admitted to anyone that she was pregnant.
Her knees buckled slightly, and she leaned against the cold porcelain to steady herself.
Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe.
There was a knock at the door.
"Isabella?" Ariana's voice came through, hesitant. "Are you okay? Mr. Volkov's been looking for you."
No. No, no, not now.
She flushed the toilet, splashed cold water on her face, and forced her voice steady. "I'm fine. Just give me a second."
Ariana paused. "Okay… I'll tell him you're on your way."
The moment the footsteps faded, Isabella reached into her bag and pulled out the crumpled card from her OB's office. Her next appointment wasn't until next week. She couldn't wait that long.
She had to know.
She made the call quickly, her voice shaking. "Hi. Yes—this is Isabella Romano. I need to come in. Something's wrong."
An hour later, she sat in the dim examination room, clutching her coat around her middle.
"Spotting in the first trimester isn't uncommon," the nurse reassured gently. "But given your stress levels and lack of rest, it's good you came in. We'll do a quick ultrasound to be sure everything's okay."
Isabella nodded, her mouth too dry to speak.
Her thoughts raced. What if the worst had happened? What if she lost the baby? What if the stress of working for him—the father—was already poisoning everything she was trying to protect?
The machine whirred to life.
The cold gel made her flinch, but then—there it was.
A flickering sound. Rhythmic. Strong.
The heartbeat.
Isabella burst into tears.
The nurse squeezed her hand. "Baby's fine. Strong heartbeat, no signs of miscarriage. But you need to rest, Isabella. And you need to stop pretending everything's okay."
She nodded, too overwhelmed to answer.
By the time she returned to Volkov Enterprises, her composure was hanging by a thread.
The receptionist barely glanced up. But when Isabella stepped into the executive suite, she found Dominic waiting by her desk, arms crossed, face dark.
"Where have you been?"
"I—had to step out."
"For three hours?"
She opened her mouth, but he cut her off.
"Don't lie to me," he said, voice low and lethal. "You were pale this morning. You looked like you were going to pass out again. And now you disappear with no explanation?"
"I had a personal emergency," she snapped, suddenly too tired to dance around the truth.
His eyes narrowed. "Medical?"
She hesitated. "Yes."
He took a step forward, anger still in every line of his body—but there was something else behind it. Fear?
"Are you okay?"
She blinked.
He sounded… worried.
She nodded slowly. "Yes. I'm okay now."
He didn't look convinced. But he stepped back and said, "Go home. For the rest of the day."
"I can finish the reports—"
"Go. Home."
The firmness in his voice made her legs move before her brain caught up.
As she gathered her things, Dominic watched her like a storm ready to break. She knew she was dangerously close to the edge. One wrong move, one more slip, and everything would unravel.
But even more terrifying was the realization she could no longer keep her distance.
Because the father of her baby—cold, controlled Dominic Volkov—was starting to care.
And if he ever found out the truth?
She didn't know if she'd survive what came next.