The soft clink of silverware filled the air as Lucian quietly ate the dinner Caliste prepared. He hadn't said a word since walking in, just nodded slightly when he saw her waiting by the table. The braised beef and spiced vegetables sat warm between them, untouched longer than necessary, as if both were prolonging the inevitable.
Lucian finished first, wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, and without a glance, stood and made his way to the study.
Caliste waited only a few minutes before following. Her fingers trembled slightly as she held them together in front of her. The door was ajar. Inside, Lucian was already seated at his desk, scrolling through something on his tablet. The light cast a golden hue across his sharp features.
"Lucian," she said gently.
He looked up, eyes cool. "Yes?"
"I… I want to ask you something," she started, stepping in. "About your family. About the pressure they're putting on you to have an heir."
He leaned back in his chair, gaze narrowing. "Talk straight, Caliste. I'm not in the mood for riddles."
Her lips parted slightly, her heart hammering in her chest. Then she met his gaze.
"I'm pregnant."
The room fell into silence, thick and impenetrable. Lucian's expression didn't move. He didn't blink, didn't breathe—for a moment, he looked like a statue carved in shock.
"You're sure?" he asked finally, his voice low, unreadable.
Caliste nodded once. "I confirmed it this morning."
Lucian stared at her. Her words hadn't sunk in entirely, but something inside him shifted. Pregnant. With my child. My heir.
But before he could gather his thoughts, she continued.
"I'm offering you this child."
Lucian's eyes darkened. "What do you mean?"
"In exchange," she said, her voice clearer now, practiced, deliberate, "for my freedom. And my father's. Reinstate him in the Winslow empire. Clear our names. After I give birth, I will leave. I won't fight for custody. I'll waive every maternal right to the child."
Lucian sat still, stunned.
Was she serious?
Did she have no attachment?
Does she not love our child? he thought.
It didn't make sense.
"Why?" he asked quietly, searching her face. "Why would you do that?"
Caliste paused—just long enough to let the silence speak—but then looked away and said, "Because I want my life back. My title, my freedom. I never wanted to be tied down."
Lie. Every word.
But it was the only way to keep the child safe from Desmund, from blackmail, from war. She knew Lucian could protect the baby in ways she never could. So she buried her heart, locking it behind practiced detachment.
Lucian stared at her for what felt like eternity. Something flickered in his eyes disappointment, confusion, anger, maybe even sorrow. But it vanished before it could surface.
"So no one will know you're the mother?" he asked.
"No one," she replied, standing straighter. "Once the child is born, I'll disappear. You'll have your heir, your legacy. And I'll have what I want."
Lucian stood and walked slowly around his desk. He stopped in front of her, his presence overwhelming. She expected him to argue, to lash out, to call her bluff.
Instead, he said coldly, "Fine. If that's what you want."
Caliste swallowed hard.
"You'll stay on my island," he continued. "Exclusive. Private. Until the child is born. After that, you'll be free to go."
She nodded, forcing herself to remain composed.
He looked at her for a moment longer. Something about her didn't sit right with him. The emptiness in her voice. The way she held herself. This wasn't the Caliste he remembered—fiery, headstrong, stubborn. This one was careful. Cold.
Maybe she really wasn't suited to be a mother.
"Very well," Lucian said, turning away. "I'll make arrangements."
She turned too, heading for the door, her hand tight on the knob. When she stepped out, her legs were shaking.
And in the silence of the hallway, as she pressed a hand gently over her stomach, she whispered the words she couldn't say aloud:
"I'm sorry, little one. I love you… but this is the only way I can protect you."
The moment the door clicked shut, Lucian remained where he stood, facing the wall of glass that overlooked the sleeping city below. The skyline flickered with lights, but his eyes didn't see any of it.
She just walked away.
So that was it.
She was carrying his child. Their child. And yet, she offered it like some… commodity. Like a pawn in a business transaction.
His jaw clenched. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
"Waive all maternal rights," she said. "No one will know I'm the mother."
Like it meant nothing. As if she were giving away a handbag or some leftover trinket from her privileged past.
What kind of woman says that?
He turned abruptly, slamming his fist down on the edge of the desk. The sound echoed in the room, sharp and violent. His breath grew heavy, shoulders tense, every muscle in his body coiled with restraint.
She was lying. He knew it in his gut.
He had watched her these past two months — how she flinched when touched too roughly, how she sometimes paused when looking at children on television.
She cared for her child. And that's what infuriated him more than anything — that she cared and was still willing to throw it all away.
"For her freedom," she claimed.
For her father. He should have known.
She was still chained to the past, still shackled to her broken name. And now, she wanted to use his child to bargain her way out. As if he were no different from Desmund, from all the other power-hungry jackals playing games with bloodlines and empires.
Lucian ran a hand through his hair and let out a bitter laugh, low and humorless.
So that's who he had become to her. A means to an end.
He had given her shelter. Food. Protection. His bed. And this was what he got in return — a cold, calculated deal wrapped in a quiet voice and pretty eyes.
He should've known better. He was the one who reminded her, over and over, that this was never love. That she was only here to warm his bed.
But the truth was, somewhere between the quiet mornings and the long nights, somewhere in the soft way she whispered his name or traced the scar on his chest, he started forgetting.
And now she had reminded him.
Brutally.
He looked at the whiskey bottle on his shelf and walked toward it with long strides. Pouring a drink, he downed it in one go, the burn doing nothing to ease the ache that began to coil in his chest.
"Fine," he muttered under his breath. "You want out? You'll get it."
He would give her everything she asked for — her freedom, her father's reinstatement, her clean slate.
But she would never forget what it cost.
Lucian stared into the glass in his hand, jaw set. His voice was quiet when he said, to no one in particular—
"You're not the only one who knows how to let go."