One Week Time Lapse:
Jackson's POV
The week that followed felt less like a lapse of time and more like a slow, deliberate fracture.
Belinda was different. The fierce, demanding light in her eyes had been replaced by a quiet, distant sadness. She was polite, efficient in her duties, and utterly untouchable.
She avoided my touch completely. In the dining room, she sat farther away. In the master suite, she slept on the very edge of the bed. After the axe room incident, I hadn't pushed, figuring the stress from the General's move and my abrupt answer about children had been too much. But the sustained distance, the constant faint scent of floral soap and not gunpowder clinging to her... it drove me insane.
The lying was back, too. Every time I looked at her, I saw the beautiful lie in her eyes. It was why she was always so exhausted, why she was always running to Rosline's suite, why she was throwing up the coffee she had loved.
The paranoia was back, but directed at her, not the perimeter.
I started smoking cigarettes again. I'd sworn them off when we got together, but the cold certainty of nicotine was the only thing that cut through the fear and frustration. I'd stand on the deck, staring at the empty spaces between the sunflowers I had planted, drawing on the cheap filter, my comms in my ear, trying to find a tactical answer to an emotional problem.
One afternoon, when Belinda and the girls were in the sub-level gym, I cracked. I walked into the master suite, my heart pounding, and started searching. I was looking for a tracker, a secondary comms unit, anything that explained the secrecy. I went through her drawers, under the mattress, checking for hidden documents, my hands moving with practiced efficiency. All I found were clothes, extra magazines for her handgun, and a collection of Astro candies.
I found nothing, which only intensified the feeling that I was missing everything.
Belinda's POV
The distance from Jackson was a deliberate, necessary shield. Every time he looked at me, I saw his anger, his trauma, and the absolute no to a future I was actively building. I couldn't subject him to a forced change, and I couldn't terminate the pregnancy.
I was confused, exhausted, and desperately alone. I maintained the façade of a tired, stressed operative, relying on Rosline and Ronda to run interference.
Every night, I waited until Jackson was soundly asleep or gone to the vault. Then, I retreated to the massive, soundproof shower, turned the jets to scalding, and cried silently into the running water. The water washed away the physical evidence, but not the cold, sharp ache of having to choose between the man I loved and the life I carried.
One evening, I couldn't face the gym. I walked instead to the kitchen for a glass of water, stopping by the window that overlooked the indoor pool area.
I saw them instantly: Tyrone and Ronda.
They were in the shallow end of the pool, submerged to their chests. Tyrone was laughing…a genuine, loud sound I rarely heard from him. Ronda had her hand pressed to his cheek, and then, she pulled him in for a slow, deep kiss.
I watched them, my heart swelling with a strange, bittersweet relief. They had found their peace, their quiet joy, in the middle of this armored hell. The sight of their happiness was a sudden, clear light in my suffocating darkness. I smiled, a real, unfelt smile, before backing away from the window, leaving them to their stolen moment.
They were building something safe. I just needed to figure out how to deal with this pregnancy, even if it meant doing it completely alone.
Jackson's POV
I was exhausted, my muscles burning from the solitary, punishing hour in the gym. The heavy bag hadn't helped my mood, and neither had seeing Tyrone and Ronda in the pool. It was a clear connection, a beautiful vulnerability that I was forced to ignore because my own foundation was shifting beneath my feet and I feel helpless.
I reached the master suite and the faint smell of stale smoke clinging to my clothes immediately made me feel guilty. I slipped the pack of cigarettes back into my sock drawer.
I walked past the bed. It was empty. The light was on in the bathroom, and the sound of the high-pressure shower was a loud roar, louder than usual. Good. She was cleaning the day off, washing away the stress and the distance.
I dropped my gym bag, walked over to the bathroom door, and was about to knock when I heard it…a sound I shouldn't have been able to hear. The soundproofing in the bathroom was military-grade, designed to muffle everything. But the noise was so raw, so violently uncontrolled, that it punched through the barrier.
It was sobbing. Not a quiet whimper, but ragged, desperate gasps choked into the water, loud, animal noises of pure, pain.
I froze, every muscle in my body locking up. It was my beautiful girl. She wasn't just taking a shower…she was broken.
My strategist's mind went blank, replaced by a pure, blinding fear. I didn't knock. I shoved the heavy, armored door open, the sound of the handle hitting the tile drowned out by the noise of the shower.
The bathroom was thick with steam. I could barely see through the glass shower partition, but the image was clear. My queen was curled on the floor of the stall, fully clothed in the loose shirt and leggings she'd worn all day, her arms wrapped tight around her knees, her entire body shaking under the relentless spray.
She hadn't heard me. The shower noise, the shock, and the intensity of her grief had created a small, terrifying bubble.
"Love!" I roared, shedding the last pretense of calm.
She flinched violently, her head snapping up toward the sound. Her face was streaked with water and tears, her eyes wide, terrified, and utterly exposed. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
I tore the heavy glass door open and knelt immediately beside her on the cold, wet tile floor, ignoring the spray hitting my face.
"What is it? What happened? Are you hurt?" The logical side of me demanded, my hands checking her for physical damage…a wound, a message, a sign of intrusion.
She didn't answer with words. She simply launched herself at me, burying her face into my chest, her soaked body shuddering against mine. The sobs escalated, muffled now into my wet shirt, the sound hitting me directly, physically.
This was not the quiet, tactical distress of a soldier under pressure. This was profound, internal devastation. This was the breakdown of the most impenetrable person I had ever known. And I knew, with a sickening certainty, that whatever was causing this was the secret she was hiding, the one she had lied to me about.
"Talk to me, Love," I whispered fiercely, tightening my arms around her, pulling her close against the cold, hard certainty of my heart. "I've been giving you enough space. What is happening? What's been hurting you so much lately?"