The South Wing suite was blissfully quiet, safe for the rhythmic beeping of Rosline's small, digital monitoring device. I laid back on the couch, exhausted but relieved. Rosline was all precision, her medical training a grounding force against the chaos of our lives.
"Blood pressure is up," Rosline stated, reviewing the numbers on the screen. "And your iron levels are dropping. It's exactly what happens when you're under acute stress, but compounded."
She placed a gentle, reassuring hand on my shoulder. "You're building a human under siege, B. You were out there taking point yesterday. You can't keep doing that. We have to increase the decoys."
"I know," I sighed, pulling my borrowed hoodie tighter. "I was a mess with the coffee this morning. Jackson's clock is ticking louder than the thermal alarm."
Rosline nodded, then picked up the two decoy wine glasses on the side table—one half-full, one full. The illusion of a relaxing morning was important.
"The good news is the blood panel looks strong, other than the iron. The baby is thriving in there," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But you need rest, B. And we need to give Jackson a convincing distraction. Something to prove you're 'fine' and not about to collapse."
I thought about his worried gaze and the extreme security measures he'd just enacted. He was building walls…I was growing a life within them.
Jackson's POV
I was on the phone with Tyrone, reviewing the sensor data for the twentieth time, when I formulated the plan. Distraction. Normalcy. The antidote to my father's annoying little project to irritate me.
I had Tyrone prep the sub-level.
A few hours later, I stood in the master suite, waiting for her. In my hands, I held a massive bouquet…not just the symbolic sunflowers, but mixed with delicate sprigs of baby's breath, the tiny white flowers contrasting sharply with the huge yellow heads.
Belinda walked out in a pair of dark jeans and a soft knit top, looking less like a field commander and more like the beautiful, chaotic mess I fell in love with.
"We have a reservation," I said, handing her the flowers.
She took them, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of the baby's breath. She didn't hug me, but she pressed her face into the bouquet, inhaling the scent deeply.
"Sunflowers and a promise," she murmured, a genuine warmth in her eyes. "Where are we going that requires two decoy vehicles and a helicopter?"
"The local alley," I replied, gesturing toward the elevator. "Downstairs."
I led her down to the underground bowling alley—a private, concealed space, complete with vintage lanes and a bar stocked with everything but the coffee she now seemed to hate.
As we laced up our shoes, I let the easy silence stretch, watching her. She'd been too quiet, too contained, too focused on the green drink and the General's probe.
"Love," I started, pausing before I tossed a ball down the lane. "Are you okay? You've been… tense. And this morning with the coffee…"
She didn't meet my eyes. "It was the adrenaline crash, Jackson. Rosline said my cortisol levels are through the roof. I took point yesterday…I was bound to hit a wall. Stop looking for a conspiracy in a caffeine aversion."
I nodded, pretending to accept it, but the feeling of doubt was like grit under my skin. I decided to test the water.
"Tyrone ran a full analysis on Ronda's green drink, by the way," I said casually, focusing on my throw. "It's a powerful stress tonic. Folic acid, B-complex, ginger... standard intense stress management."
Belinda's bowling ball slipped from her hand, rolling lazily into the gutter. She turned slowly, her expression a mask of shock that cracked wide open to reveal a flash of cold fury.
"Stress management?" she repeated, her voice dangerously even. "That's what Tyrone told you?"
"That's what the chemical signature indicates," I confirmed, genuinely confused by her reaction. "It's aggressive, but it's just vitamins and greens."
"Right." She didn't say another word, but the sudden, tight set of her shoulders was all the answer I needed. The secret was still looming over her head, but my friend Tyrone, the head of my security, had just provided the perfect alibi…and my beautiful girlfriend knew he was lying. She forgets I'm not an idiot. I have studied her body language so well, she doesn't need to say anything and it tells me all I need to know.
Belinda's POV
I cornered Tyrone an hour later in the armory under the disguise of "calibrating comms."
He had a nervous energy, the professional shell slightly chipped.
"The sensors on the South Wing are running clean. And the water analysis is completely normal," he said quickly, looking everywhere but at me.
What's he even talking about?
"Tyrone, shut up about the sensors," I hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the acoustic comms room. "We need to talk about the green drink."
"Look, I…"
"You told Jackson it was for stress," I cut him off. "And you listed high doses of Folic Acid and B-Complex. You didn't tell him the truth. Don't lie to me. What exactly did the cross-reference indicate?"
Tyrone sighed, running a hand over his face. "The clinical cross-reference, when paired with the symptoms you've been exhibiting—the nausea, the iron depletion, the fatigue—it screamed prenatal support. It's essentially a top-tier pregnancy regimen, just blended with spinach."
He protected me.
"Why didn't you tell Jackson that?" I demanded, keeping my voice low.
"Because he's my friend," Tyrone said, meeting my gaze with a rare, honest intensity. "And right now, he's operating at his limit. He's talking about burning the world down over his father, over protecting you. You told him the goal was to keep the target off the fortress. If he knows about the baby, this entire compound turns into a blinding, vulnerable light. He'd break his focus. I kept the threat level tactical, not existential."
He stepped closer, his voice earnest. "You clearly have the ladies here to protect your secret. I just prioritised focused command over full disclosure to the him. Was that wrong?"
I stared at him, my fury dissolving into strategic understanding. Tyrone, the tactical analyst, had just provided me with the perfect, stress-based cover.
"No, Tyrone," I said, allowing a genuine smile. "That was good security. But you need to be very careful. You've just put yourself in the blast radius along everyone else that knows."
Later that evening, the South Wing jacuzzi was a swirling pool of warm, chlorinated water and soft, hidden light. Rosline and Ronda were settled on the underwater benches, sipping champagne. I joined them, but instead of the bubbly, Ronda handed me a glass of sparkling water, adding a discreet slice of lime.
"The decoy wine worked wonders," Rosline noted, raising her flute. "Jackson thinks you're merely stressed and dehydrated. I overheard him ordering a dozen cases of the ingredients for the green mix."
I took a slow sip of my water. "That's where the problem is. Tyrone knows."
Both Rosline and Ronda froze, lowering their glasses. The quiet hum of the jets was the only sound.
"How?" Ronda asked, her tone flat with alarm.
"Jackson ran a full chemical analysis on the green drink," I explained, leaning back against the jets. "Tyrone ran the analysis, and the cross-reference screamed prenatal support—but he covered for us. He told Jackson it was for 'extreme stress management.' He bought us time and a perfect tactical alibi."
Rosline whistled softly. "Tyrone just earned a medal. He saw the fire and built a shield with one word."
"He did," I agreed. "But he's now a vulnerability. He broke protocol to protect us. If Jackson finds out, he'd kill him and the secret is out. We proceed with extreme caution around him. He is our newest, most valuable co-conspirator."