Monday morning arrived cloaked in a heavy, grey drizzle that matched the leaden weight in Leo's chest. The sanctuary of the weekend – spent cocooned in blankets, guided by Maya's fierce protectiveness and the strict regimen outlined by Aris – felt like a distant dream. The progesterone left him feeling slightly floaty, a disconnected haze that battled the persistent low-level nausea. The cramping had thankfully retreated to a faint, occasional twinge, a ghost of the terror that had sent him to urgent care.
Dressing felt like donning armor. He chose loose, dark trousers and a soft, oversized sweater, layers that hid his still-flat abdomen but felt like a flimsy shield against the world. The grainy ultrasound image, tucked securely into the innermost pocket of his bag, felt radioactive. 'Proof.'
Maya watched him from the doorway, her expression a mix of worry and fierce resolve. "@You text me. Every hour. I don't care if it's just an emoji. And if you feel anything off – dizzy, pain, anything – you walk straight out. Screw Gary. Screw Thorne Industries. Screw everything. You come home. Promise me."
"Ipromise," Leo whispered, the words sticking in his dry throat. He managed a weak smile. "It's just projections. I can handle projections."
Maya didn't look convinced. "It's not the projections I'm worried about. It's the man who demands them." She pulled him into a quick, tight hug. "You're carrying Thorne's heir, Leo. Remember that. You hold the ultimate card, even if it feels like a bomb."
The reminder sent a fresh jolt of terror through him. He pulled away, nodding mutely, and stepped out into the damp morning.
The familiar thrum of the 40th floor hit Leo like a physical wall. The scent of coffee, stale air conditioning, and the faint ozone tang of electronics was achingly normal. Yet, everything felt distorted, amplified. The fluorescent lights seemed harsher, the clatter of keyboards louder, the low murmur of conversation sharper. He felt hyper-visible, as if the secret he carried radiated from him like a beacon.
He kept his head down, navigating the cubicle maze towards Pod C-7. Whispers seemed to follow him, though they were likely just the usual office static. 'Did he look paler? Was he moving slower?' Paranoia prickled his skin.
Gary materialized the moment Leo slid into his chair. "Chen! Finally. Feeling better?"His tone held the usual mix of impatience and barely concealed anxiety. He dropped a thick folder onto Leo's desk. "Thornfield year-end. Thorne wants preliminary regional breakdowns – trends, anomalies, potential headwinds – by end of day. Focus on the APAC volatility. He's….. keen."
'Keen.' The word landed like a stone. Leo forced himself to nod, opening the folder. The numbers swam before his eyes. "On it, Gary."
"Good. Don't make me look bad," Gary muttered, already turning to harass Jenkins about a delayed report. "Thorne's been….… restless."
'Restless.' Leo's stomach churned. He took a small, deliberate sip of water, the cool liquid doing little to settle the nausea. He opened the Thornfield data file, the familiar interface a small anchor in the swirling chaos. He could do this. He had to do this. Numbers were safe. Numbers were predictable. He just needed to focus on the patterns, the correlations, the story the data told. He needed to be Leo Chen, Analyst, for a few more hours. Days. However long he had before the inevitable detonation.
He lost himself, or tried to, in the intricate dance of regional sales figures, currency fluctuations, and competitor activity in the Asia-Pacific market. The work was complex, demanding the sharp focus he usually prided himself on. Today, it was a lifeline, a distraction from the tiny, fluttering heartbeat echoing in his mind and the constant, low-grade fear humming in his veins.
Maya, true to her word, texted at ten o'clock.
Maya: 'Status? Still breathing?'
Leo managed a shaky smile, typing back.
Leo: 'Breathing. Buried in APAC volatility. All quiet.'
He hit send, the lie of 'all quiet'sitting heavily. He glanced towards the elevator bank, half-expecting Eleanor Vance to appear with another summons. Nothing. The morning crawled by.
Just before noon, the nausea surged, sharp and insistent. Leo clamped a hand over his mouth, pushing back from his desk. "Bathroom,"he mumbled to Maya, who instantly swiveled, concern etched on her face.
He hurried down the corridor, the familiar route feeling longer than ever. He pushed into the thankfully empty men's room, leaning heavily against the cool tile wall of a stall, taking deep, shuddering breaths. The wave passed, leaving him clammy and weak. 'Breathe. Just breathe.' He splashed cold water on his face, avoiding his pale, haunted reflection in the mirror. The face of someone carrying Alexander Thorne's child. The absurdity almost made him laugh, a hysterical bubble rising in his chest that he quickly choked down.
He emerged, still shaky, to find Maya hovering near the pod entrance. "Leo? You okay?"
"Fine,"he rasped, forcing himself to walk normally back to his desk. "Just….. needed air." He avoided her probing gaze, sinking back into his chair, focusing on the spreadsheet with desperate intensity.
The afternoon brought a different kind of tension. Rumors began to ripple through the pod – hushed tones, furtive glances towards the executive elevator bank.
"Thorne's on the warpath."
"He just tore through Marketing like a cyclone."
"Something big's going down."
Leo's fingers froze over the keyboard. 'War path.'The Thornfield projections felt suddenly insignificant, a tiny skirmish in a much larger, unseen battle. Was it Zenith? Was it something else? Was it... 'him'? Had Aris said something? Had he somehow sensed Leo's secret?
He forced himself to keep working, the numbers blurring. He finished the preliminary APAC analysis, highlighting the impact of unexpected regulatory shifts in Singapore and the aggressive pricing move by a key competitor in South Korea. He compiled the findings into a concise report, his usual clarity feeling like a brittle veneer. He sent it to Gary, copying Eleanor Vance as protocol demanded. 'Done.' One small shield against the gathering storm.
He was gathering his things, the clock nearing 5:30 PM, the pod emptying rapidly, when Maya's phone buzzed. She looked at the screen, her eyes widening. "Eleanor Vance,"she hissed.
Leo's blood ran cold. He froze, his messenger bag half-slung over his shoulder.
Maya answered, her voice impressively steady. "Maya Rodriguez." A pause. Her eyes met Leo's, filled with dread. "Yes, Ms. Vance. He's right here."She held out the phone.
Leo took it, his hand trembling visibly now. "Leo Chen."
"Mr. Chen."Eleanor Vance's voice was its usual crisp, unreadable self. "Mr. Thorne has reviewed your Thornfield APAC analysis. He requires clarification on the projected impact of the Singapore regulatory change in Q4. He'd like you to join him in Conference Room B. Now."
The request was professional. Reasonable, even. Yet, it felt like the tolling of a bell. 'Now.' Not an email. Not a message through Gary. A direct summons. To a conference room. Alone.
Leo's gaze darted towards the executive elevator bank. He could refuse. Claim lingering illness. But the defiance died before it fully formed. Running now would only heighten suspicion. He had to face this. He had to maintain the facade, just a little longer.
"Of course, Ms. Vance,"he managed, his voice thin. "I'll be right up."
He handed the phone back to Maya. Her face was pale. "Leo...."
"It's just clarification," he said, the words tasting like ash. "APAC volatility. That's all." He adjusted the strap of his bag, the ultrasound image a burning brand against his side. He forced himself to meet Maya's terrified eyes. "I'll be fine."
He turned and walked towards the elevators, his legs moving on autopilot. The familiar journey felt like a walk to the gallows. The plush elevator carpet, the silent ascent, the hushed opulence of the executive floor – it all felt charged with impending doom. He followed the corridor to Conference Room B, smaller than Room A but no less imposing.
He paused outside the door, taking a deep, shuddering breath. 'Clarity. Facts'. Aris's words echoed. 'The truth is your strongest ally.' But the truth he carried was a nuclear option. For now, he had to give the CEO the clarification he demanded. About Singapore. About regulations. About numbers.
He pushed the door open.
Alexander Thorne stood at the head of the table, silhouetted against the rain-streaked window. He wasn't looking at the view. He was staring directly at the door, his icy blue eyes locking onto Leo the moment he entered. The intensity in that gaze was palpable, a physical force that pinned Leo to the spot. It wasn't the focused anger of the Zenith crisis, nor the contemplative assessment of Silk & Steel. This was different. Sharper. More probing. As if he were trying to see through the layers of wool and fear, straight to the impossible secret nestled deep within.
"Chen,"Thorne stated, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the quiet room. "Close the door."
The heavy door clicked shut, sealing Leo into the pressurized silence of Conference Room B. Rain streaked the panoramic window behind Alexander Thorne, turning the city lights into smears of gold against the grey dusk. Thorne hadn't moved. He remained a dark, imposing silhouette, his icy blue gaze fixed on Leo with unnerving intensity. The air crackled, thick with unspoken questions far heavier than the one about Singapore regulations.
"Your analysis on Singapore was….. concise," Thorne repeated, his voice low, gravelly, cutting through the quiet like shards of glass. "The projected 8% revenue dip in Q4 due to the new compliance burden. Justify the weighting you gave to the competitor's potential market share grab during the disruption."
It was a legitimate question, demanding technical justification. Yet, the way Thorne asked it – the unwavering focus, the stillness that felt predatory – transformed it into an interrogation of Leo himself. Leo forced his feet to carry him closer to the table, stopping a few paces away. He clasped his hands behind his back to hide their trembling, the rough wool of his sweater suddenly scratchy against his skin. He met Thorne's gaze, channeling every ounce of his frayed composure. 'Clarity. Facts. Just the numbers.'
"Yes, sir," Leo began, his voice thankfully steady, projecting a confidence he didn't feel. "The 8% dip is based on the direct cost impact of the new reporting requirements and estimated delays in customs clearance. However, historical data from similar regulatory shifts in the region – specifically the Hong Kong data privacy overhaul in '21 and the Taiwan import tariff restructuring last year – shows competitors consistently exploit the disruption window." He paused, gathering his thoughts, forcing himself to focus on the familiar terrain of data. "Market leader 'Veridian Tech' deployed aggressive discounting and expedited logistics within two weeks of both previous disruptions, capturing an average of 3.2% market share from smaller players caught unprepared. Applying that historical precedent, weighted for Veridian's current liquidity position and their recent hiring spree in Singaporean logistics, I projected a potential 1.5-2% immediate share grab specifically targeting our Thornfield mid-tier clients during the Q4 chaos. Hence, the higher weighting in the overall impact forecast."
He stopped, his breath catching slightly. The explanation was sound, logical, backed by data. He'd done his job. He waited, bracing for the next salvo, the next demand for deeper justification.
Thorne didn't immediately respond. He remained still, his gaze drilling into Leo, not shifting to notes or a screen, but fixed solely on Leo's face. The silence stretched, becoming suffocating. Leo could hear the faint drumming of rain against the glass, the frantic thudding of his own heart. The nausea, momentarily suppressed by adrenaline, began to coil again, low and insistent. He swallowed hard, the movement tight in his throat.
"Historical precedent," Thorne finally murmured, the words slow, deliberate. He took a single step forward, away from the window, the movement fluid and predatory. "Weighted for current conditions." Another step. "Logical." He stopped, now only a few feet away. The scent of sandalwood and clean linen, usually subtle, felt overwhelming in the confined space. "And yet, Chen..…" His voice dropped lower, becoming almost intimate, yet laced with steel. "You look like hell."
Leo flinched. The directness was a physical blow. He dropped his gaze for a split second, then forced it back up. "The..… the food poisoning, sir. Lingering effects. I'm fine." The lie tasted like copper in his mouth.
"Are you?" Thorne's gaze swept over him, taking in the pallor Leo couldn't hide, the slight tremor in his hands he'd tried to conceal, the unnatural stillness of his posture. "You were pale at Silk & Steel. Paler still today. And you move..…" He tilted his head, a fractional movement, "…..like you're carrying something heavy. Something unseen." He took another half-step closer. The space between them crackled. "What aren't you telling me, Chen?"
The question hung in the air, loaded, dangerous. It wasn't about Singapore anymore. It wasn't about Zenith. It was about the secret burning a hole in Leo's bag, about the tiny life fluttering inside him. Panic surged, cold and absolute. The room seemed to tilt. Thorne's intense blue eyes filled his vision, demanding answers Leo couldn't give. The nausea roared back, a sickening wave that stole his breath and turned the edges of his vision grey.
"I..." Leo stammered, his voice thin, reedy. He took an involuntary step back, bumping against the conference table. The edge dug into his hip. "Sir, I assure you, it's just….."
The world lurched violently. The grey at the edges of his vision rushed inward. Thorne's face, sharp with sudden alarm, swam before him. A buzzing filled Leo's ears, drowning out the rain, the frantic pulse in his own head, everything. He felt his knees buckle, the strength leaching from his legs.
He didn't hit the floor. A strong hand shot out, gripping his upper arm with bruising force, hauling him upright. Another arm wrapped around his back, steadying him as his legs gave way completely. Leo sagged against a solid wall of heat and expensive wool, the scent of sandalwood filling his nostrils, overwhelming the rising bile.
"Chen!" Thorne's voice was sharp, cutting through the buzzing, laced with a concern that sounded almost like anger. "Look at me!"
Leo tried. His vision swam, focusing blurrily on the sharp line of Thorne's jaw, the tight set of his mouth. He felt Thorne's hand shift, fingers pressing against the pulse point in his neck. The touch was cool, clinical, yet shockingly intimate. Leo could feel the frantic flutter of his own heartbeat under that pressure.
"Your pulse is racing," Thorne stated, his voice low and urgent, close to Leo's ear. "You're clammy. What is wrong with you?" He shifted his grip, holding Leo more securely against him, preventing him from collapsing. "Is it the illness? Or something else?"
Leo couldn't speak. He could only shake his head weakly, a pathetic denial. He felt dizzy, detached, his body betraying him utterly. The pressure of Thorne's hold, the proximity, the sheer terror of being discovered in this vulnerable state, was too much. His messenger bag, slung awkwardly across his body, shifted with his movement. The flap wasn't fully secured.
As Thorne adjusted his grip, trying to get a better hold to lower Leo into a chair, the bag shifted again. The folded, grainy rectangle of the ultrasound image, tucked hastily into the outer pocket, slipped free. It fluttered silently, landing face-up on the deep blue conference room carpet, right between Thorne's polished black shoes.
Time froze.
Leo saw it happen in horrifying slow motion. His breath hitched, a silent scream trapped in his throat. He saw Thorne's gaze, sharp and assessing as he looked down, instinctively tracking the movement of the falling object. He saw the moment Thorne's eyes registered the image – the dark, circular sac, the tiny, labeled arrow pointing to the flickering grain of rice: 'Fetal Pole. Heartbeat.'
Recognition wasn't instantaneous. It was a slow, dawning horror that washed over Thorne's features, stripping away the CEO's controlled mask layer by layer. Confusion flickered, replaced by disbelief, then a dawning, terrible comprehension that turned his face ashen. His grip on Leo's arm tightened convulsively, not in support, but in shock.
His head snapped up, his icy blue eyes, now wide with a storm of emotions – shock, fury, betrayal, utter disbelief – locked onto Leo's. The clinical concern vanished, replaced by a raw, terrifying intensity Leo had never seen before.
"What," Thorne's voice was a low, dangerous rasp, vibrating with suppressed fury, "is this?"
He didn't wait for an answer. His gaze dropped back to the damning image on the carpet, then swept back up Leo's body, not assessing his health now, but him. His eyes raked over Leo's loose sweater, lingering on his abdomen with a horrifying, dawning realization.
The numbness that had held Leo shattered. He felt exposed, flayed open. The secret was out. Not in the controlled way Aris had planned, with careful words and support, but violently, catastrophically, laid bare on the conference room floor by his own collapsing body.
Thorne's grip on his arm was the only thing keeping him upright. The CEO's face was inches from his own, the fury in his eyes a physical force. The storm wasn't outside the glass anymore. It was here, in this room, unleashed by a tiny, grainy image and the impossible truth it revealed.
"Leo," Thorne growled, the name sounding alien, dangerous, stripped of any title. "What. Have. You. Done?" The words weren't a question; they were an accusation, a sentence, carrying the crushing weight of a world irrevocably shattered. The gilded cage hadn't just cracked; it had exploded, and Leo was trapped in the wreckage with the most dangerous man he knew, the father of his child, staring at him with eyes full of furious, bewildered betrayal. The weight of knowing had just become an unbearable burden shared, dropped at their feet with the force of a collapsing star.