It wasn't a request. It was an order.
Caliste's breath caught, but she didn't argue. She couldn't—not tonight.
Lucian disappeared down the hallway, leaving behind the lingering scent of his cologne and the iron command in his voice.
Caliste walked slowly to the kitchen, her limbs numb. She forced herself to eat a few bites of fruit, though her stomach was tight with knots. Her mind echoed Desmund's cruel smirk. "Get pregnant. With Lucian's child."
She set the plate down and moved to the bathroom, scrubbing away the invisible stain of her encounter with Desmund, the scent of fear, and the traces of another world where she once felt safe. By the time she stood before Lucian's door in a silk slip, her hands were trembling, but her face was calm.
She knocked once.
"Come in."
The door opened to reveal Lucian at the edge of the bed, already shirtless, his expression unreadable. His gaze locked onto hers—not with warmth, but hunger. Possession. Something dark and possessive curled behind his eyes.
"You know what to do," he said simply.
Caliste moved forward.
She'd become skilled at this—silencing her heart, erasing her tears, letting her body obey while her soul curled inward. But tonight, something inside her fought back. Even as she sank onto the bed beside him, her mind whispered resistance.
This wasn't love.
This wasn't safety.
This was survival.
Lucian touched her chin, tilting her face toward his. "You've been crying."
"No," she lied softly.
He searched her eyes for a moment. Then, he kissed her—fiercely, claiming, as if to erase every other touch she might've known. His hands moved with practiced need, but hers were slow, reluctant.
She closed her eyes.
Not from pleasure.
But from fear.
From the rising tide of things she couldn't say.
The sun had already risen high when Caliste slowly opened her eyes, the soft morning light brushing against her bare shoulders. The sheets were tangled around her legs, Lucian's lingering warmth long faded from the bed. She blinked lazily, her body heavy with sleep, the quietness of the penthouse pressing around her like a sigh.
It was her day off. A small mercy in the quiet war that had become her life.
She sat up and wrapped herself in a silk robe, the cool fabric whispering against her skin. Lucian was already gone, likely to some high-stakes meeting or empire-building affair. The scent of him still lingered on the pillows, but she pushed the thought away. She had more pressing things to think about today—like breathing.
Dragging her feet to the bathroom, she cleaned herself up in silence. Warm water sluiced over her skin, but it didn't wash away the ache in her chest. After drying her hair and tying it up in a loose bun, she padded barefoot to the kitchen. She didn't feel like having anything the house chef prepared. She wanted something simple. Normal. Hers.
Something that made her feel like Caliste again.
She took leftover rice from the fridge and started sautéing garlic in butter, the aroma quickly filling the kitchen. But just as she added the rice, a sudden wave of nausea twisted violently in her stomach. The spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered into the pan. Her hand flew to her mouth.
Her body wrenched once. Then again.
She barely made it to the sink before she vomited.
The sound of retching echoed in the pristine silence. She clutched the counter afterward, cold sweat breaking along her back. Her breaths came shallow, disoriented. She stared at the pan, still sizzling faintly, and a heavy thought slipped through the fog in her head.
When was the last time I had my period?
Her fingers trembled as she did the math in her head. A month. No—six weeks? Maybe more?
"No..." she whispered, panic threading her voice.
Without thinking, she grabbed her purse and rushed out. The city blurred around her as she walked briskly to the nearest pharmacy, head low, sunglasses masking her eyes. She bought a pregnancy kit, avoiding the gaze of the smiling clerk, then headed straight back to the penthouse.
Her hands shook as she unwrapped the test. She locked herself in the bathroom, sat down on the cool tile floor, and waited. Seconds felt like hours.
Then the result came.
Two lines.
Positive.
A sound escaped her throat—half gasp, half cry. The test dropped from her fingers, clattering to the floor.
Pregnant.
She pressed a hand to her flat belly, too stunned to cry, too broken to rejoice. Her heart raced with a dozen voices all screaming at once.
Desmund.
Lucian.
The child.
Tears slipped quietly down her cheeks as she stared at the mirror. In it, she didn't see the girl she once was. Not the heiress. Not the mistress. Just a frightened woman caught between power and sacrifice.
Her fingers curled protectively over her stomach.
She was carrying Lucian's child.
And no one could ever know.
Not yet.
Caliste sat on the bathroom floor for a long time, unmoving, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The pregnancy test lay beside her like a quiet verdict—unassuming, yet life-altering. Her breath trembled every time she looked at it, so she stopped. Instead, she focused on the soft humming of the penthouse air conditioning and the faint ticking of the wall clock. The world continued, indifferent.
She pressed her back against the cold tiles and closed her eyes.
Lucian.
His name alone sent a flurry of fear and yearning through her chest. He had never once said he wanted a child with her. He never mentioned a future with her beyond the present arrangement silent, physical, unspoken.
And Desmund.
That monster would use this child as a weapon, a chain to manipulate Lucian and destroy what little remained of her father's dignity. She couldn't allow it.
I need to think. I need to move.
She rose from the bathroom slowly, composed her face in the mirror, and walked out to the kitchen.
Then she made tea—mint and honey, the scent grounding her. She carried the cup to the living room and curled on the couch, knees tucked to her chest.
As the evening settled into shadows and fading light, Caliste formed a plan in her mind.
She would speak to Lucian tonight.