[Sophie’s POV]

I don’t tell them.

Not that night, not the next morning, not even after a full week has passed and the word pregnant has settled into my bones like something living there now. I move through my days like I’m carrying a second, invisible body inside me, heavy with consequences, sharp with secrets. Every time Adrian looks at me like he’s counting my breaths, every time Cassian touches my lower back with that quiet, grounding certainty, I feel like I’m lying with my whole existence.

Two weeks. I give myself two weeks, telling myself it’s temporary, telling myself I just need clarity first, telling myself I’m protecting all of us. The lie sounds reasonable when I repeat it often enough.

Cleo is the only thing keeping me upright.

She shows up at my office door on the one day with a bag of saltines and ginger candies, sliding them across my desk without a word. When I look up, she just shrugs.

“You looked green on our facetime,” she says quietly. “Figured you could use backup.”

I almost cry right there. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” She drops into the chair across from me and kicks her feet up on my desk like she owns the place. “I also brought you actual food because I know you’ve been surviving on coffee and anxiety.”

She pulls a container from her bag—soup, still warm, from the café I love but never have time to visit. The smell should make me nauseous, but instead my stomach growls traitorously.

“Eat,” she orders. “The baby needs nutrients, and so does your dramatic ass.”

I laugh despite myself, the sound watery and broken. “You can’t just say that out loud.”

“Your door is closed, and Mark doesn’t seem to mind at all.” She leans forward, her expression softening. “How are you? Actually?”

“Terrible,” I admit, because lying to Cleo feels impossible now. “I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I keep researching paternity tests like some kind of obsessive detective, and every time Adrian or Cassian looks at me, I feel like I’m going to shatter.”

“Have you told them anything?”

I shake my head, guilt twisting in my chest. “I keep trying to find the right moment, but there is no right moment. There’s just this—” I gesture vaguely at my stomach, at my computer, at the catastrophe forming in real time. “I don’t know how to explain this to.. Both of them.”

Cleo is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “You know you can’t keep this up forever.”

“I know.”

“They’re going to notice eventually. You’re already pulling away.”

“I know,” I repeat, sharper this time. “I just need to figure out how to say it without—”

“Without what?”

“Without watching them destroy each other.” The words come out raw, unfiltered. “You don’t see them the way I do, Cleo. The jealousy is always there, simmering under the surface. They’ve learned to manage it, but this? This could break everything.”

She studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Okay. Then we figure out what you need first. Have you scheduled a doctor’s appointment yet?”

I shake my head.

“That’s step one,” she says firmly. “Confirm everything properly. Find out how far along you are. Then you can decide what comes next.”

It sounds so simple when she says it. Clinical. Manageable. Like this is just another problem to solve instead of a bomb waiting to detonate.

“I’ll make an appointment,” I promise.

“Good.” She stands, brushing invisible lint off her skirt. “Now eat your soup before it gets cold. I’ll cover for you if anyone asks why you look like death warmed over.”

She pauses at the door, glancing back. “And Sophie? You’re not alone in this. Stop acting like you have to carry it by yourself.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and I’m left staring at the soup, my throat tight with gratitude and fear in equal measure.

At home, I lie.

I lie about being tired when Adrian pulls me close and presses his forehead to mine, his voice low and careful as he asks if work is still heavy. I lie about a headache when Cassian notices the way I keep zoning out, my gaze drifting to nothing while he’s mid-sentence. I lie with my mouth and my body and my silence, and every lie tastes worse than the last.

“You’re somewhere else lately,” Cassian says one night as we sit on opposite ends of the couch, the space between us unusually wide. “Talk to me.”

“I’m just overwhelmed,” I answer, keeping my tone even, my posture relaxed in a way that feels rehearsed. “Work stuff. The book. Everything.”

Adrian watches me from the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s tracking something he can’t name yet. “You don’t disappear like this when you’re overwhelmed,” he says. “You get sharp. You get louder.”

I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “People change.”

How are you holding up?

I type back with shaking fingers: Barely. They know something’s wrong.

Her response comes immediately: Do you want me to come over?

No. I need to handle this.

You don’t NEED to do anything alone. That’s the whole point.

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