[Sophie’s POV]

I wake up to gray light filtering through the curtains and the weight of everything I didn’t say pressing against my chest like a stone.

Last night plays on repeat in my mind—Adrian’s face when he told me about the university, bright with hope for the first time in years. The way he kissed my forehead at the door, gentle instead of possessive, like he was learning to trust happiness again. The words I swallowed down because saying them would have shattered that fragile peace.

I stare at the ceiling, one hand resting on my stomach out of habit now.

I can’t do this to them.

The thought crystallizes with painful clarity. Adrian just got his life back. After years of scandal and blacklisting and rebuilding himself from rubble, someone finally saw his worth again. And Cassian—quiet, steady Cassian—has spent so long learning to share, to soften, to exist in a space that doesn’t come naturally to him. They’ve both sacrificed so much already.

How can I ask them to sacrifice more?

How can I drop a bomb with no answers—I’m pregnant, I don’t know whose it is—and expect them to hold themselves together? They’ll fight. They’ll spiral. Adrian will demand certainty I can’t give, and Cassian will retreat into that wounded silence that cuts deeper than any words. The fragile balance we’ve built will collapse, and I’ll be standing in the wreckage knowing I caused it.

I can’t.

I won’t.

The bedroom door creaks open, and Cleo appears with two mugs, her expression careful in that way it gets when she’s trying not to push.

“You’re awake,” she says, handing me one. Tea, not coffee. She remembered.

“Barely,” I manage.

She sits on the edge of the bed, studying my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. “You didn’t tell him last night.”

It’s not a question.

“No,” I admit.

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t explode. She just takes a slow breath, like she’s physically restraining herself. “Sophie.”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“Do you?” There’s an edge to her voice now, sharp beneath the calm. “Because I’m trying really hard to be supportive here, but watching you torture yourself while those two men have no idea what’s happening is making me insane.”

“He was so happy, Cleo.” My voice cracks. “You should have seen him. His whole face changed when he talked about the job. I couldn’t—”

“You couldn’t what? Tell him the truth?” She sets her mug down harder than necessary. “Sophie, secrets don’t protect people. They just delay the damage.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you still doing this?”

I don’t have an answer. Or I do, but it sounds pathetic out loud—that I’m scared, that I’m selfish, that some part of me hopes if I wait long enough, the right words will magically appear and everything will be fine.

Cleo exhales slowly, rubbing her temples. “I’m not going to force you,” she says finally. “It’s your body, your pregnancy, your choice when to tell them. But I need you to understand that the longer you wait, the worse this gets. For everyone.”

“I know,” I whisper again.

She looks at me for a long moment, then nods once. “Okay. So what’s your plan?”

“I need to call them,” I say, the decision forming as I speak. “Both of them. Tell them something.”

“The truth?”

I hesitate. “Part of it.”

Cleo’s expression flickers with frustration, but she doesn’t argue. “What part?”

“That they’re right. I have been avoiding them. That I’m overwhelmed and need space to figure things out.” I swallow hard. “I’ll tell them it’s stress. Work. Everything with Vaughn. I just need time.”

“And the baby?”

The word makes my stomach clench. “Not yet. I can’t—I need to know what I’m doing first. I need to see a doctor. I need to understand what I’m asking them to accept before I ask it.”

Cleo is quiet for a long moment. Then she reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I hate this,” she says softly. “For the record.”

“I know.”

“But I’m not going to abandon you just because I disagree with how you’re handling it.” She meets my eyes. “That’s not how this works.”

My throat tightens. “Thank you.”

She stands, smoothing down her shirt. “Make the calls. I’ll be in the kitchen pretending I’m not eavesdropping.”

I called him first. Adrian answers on the second ring.

“Sophie.” His voice is careful, guarded in a way it wasn’t last night. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

“I know,” I say, gripping my phone too tight. “That’s why I’m calling.”

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify