The room was dark except for the faint blue glow of a distant television someone had forgotten to turn off.
A man sat on a tall chair beside the bar counter, his silhouette barely visible in the blackness—broad shoulders slumped, one hand wrapped around a glass of scotch that caught what little light existed and threw it back in amber fragments. He wasn't drinking so much as existing with alcohol, the glass hanging from his fingers like an afterthought.
A click. The lights blazed on.
"You gotta stop this."
Alex stood by the light switch, a gun dangling from his other hand with the casual ease of someone who'd been holding weapons since before he could shave. He was shirtless, his chest bare above a pair of terylene pants, his feet shoved into socks. His hair was mussed from sleep. His expression was somewhere between annoyed and concerned—the particular look of a man who'd woken up to find a crime lord drinking alone in his dark house and wasn't sure whether to be irritated or flattered.
"You said this was my house too." Lucian slurred out the words, his voice sliding together like melting ice.
Alex narrowed his eyes. "Are you drunk?"
"No."
The answer came too fast. Too defensive. Lucian attempted to stand, to prove his sobriety through sheer vertical will, but his legs betrayed him immediately. He pitched forward, and Alex lunged to catch him, hauling him upright and maneuvering him toward the couch with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this before.
"Bro." Alex deposited Lucian onto the cushions with a grunt. "It's just 5 AM in the morning. How long have you been in my house?"
Lucian didn't answer. He stared at the ceiling, his blue eyes glassy, his expression somewhere between drunk and devastated.
Alex sighed and crossed to the bar. He set the gun down gently on the counter and poured himself a glass of scotch. If he was going to be awake at dawn dealing with his friend's emotional crisis, he wasn't going to do it sober.
The bar was a masterpiece of indulgence. Bottles lined the shelves like soldiers: whiskeys from Scotland, wines from France, and gins from micro-distilleries whose names Alex couldn't pronounce. He'd collected them over years—decades—each one a trophy from a job well done or a deal well struck. Now they sat gathering dust while he poured himself a drink at an hour when most people were still dreaming.
"Star kissed Adrian."
The words came out flat. Hollow. The voice of a man confessing something he couldn't take back.
Alex rolled his eyes so hard he saw his own brain. "Star always looked at you like a big brother. Why are you surprised now?"
He settled onto the small couch beside Lucian, cradling his scotch. The leather was cool against his bare back. Somewhere outside, the first birds of morning were beginning their tentative chirping.
"No." Lucian shook his head, his voice strengthening. "She's mine. And... and I will prove to her that I'm the better man for her."
Alex opened his mouth to respond—probably with something cutting, something about how you can't prove your way into someone's heart—when his eyes caught something on Lucian's hand.
A ring.
Silver. Ornate. Embedded with a design he hadn't seen in nearly a decade.
"Where did you get that ring?"
Lucian lifted his hand, frowning at the silver band as if he'd forgotten he was wearing it. Then he grinned—a slow, tipsy, self-satisfied grin. "Now the mafia boss character is complete."
"I'm not joking." Alex's voice had changed. Sharpened. "I've seen that somewhere."
Lucian straightened up on the couch, the drunken haze clearing from his eyes with alarming speed. He might be drunk—he was drunk—but his mind was still razor-sharp when it mattered. "Really? Where?"
He'd been searching for his birth family for a while now. Combing through records. Tracking down leads that evaporated like smoke the moment he got close. The nurse that Loise had told him about—the one who might have known something, anything—had turned out to be a dead end. Amnesia. Old age had stolen her memories and left nothing but a hollow shell in a nursing home bed. The ring on his finger and the piece of letter paper were the only leads he had left.
"My mom left these for me," Lucian said, his voice quieter now. Soberer. "They're from my real family."
Alex stared at the ring for a long moment. Then he scoffed softly, shaking his head. "I swear, years ago, a client brought me a patient. The guy had an antique watch—a Vagra bird, exactly like the one embedded on that ring. I remember it because..." He paused, taking a sip of his scotch. "The watch sold for 900,000 when I got rid of it."
Lucian leaned forward, suddenly very alert. "You know the name?"
"Bro, I don't keep track of my patients. You know that." Alex stood, stretching his back with a series of audible cracks. "And it was a long time ago. Nearly a decade. I only remember because of the price. Nine hundred K, for a watch." He shook his head. "I've sold cars for less."
"Right."
The word came out flat, but Lucian's mind was racing. A Vagra bird. The same symbol, embedded on a watch owned by some anonymous patient a decade ago. It wasn't much—it was barely anything—but it was something. The first new lead he'd had in weeks.
He removed his shoes, settling deeper into the couch, his expression distant.
"You're not sleeping here," Alex said, his voice rising toward a yell. "What happened to your mansion? Or Star's Chateau?"
Lucian didn't answer. His eyes were already closed, his breathing evening out into the slow rhythm of someone who'd passed out mid-thought.
Alex stood there for a long moment, staring at his unconscious friend. The ring glinted on Lucian's finger, catching the dim light.
Where have I seen that before? Alex thought. Really seen it. Not just on a watch. Somewhere else.
The memory wouldn't surface. It drifted somewhere in the back of his mind, just out of reach, taunting him with its elusiveness.
He gave up with a grunt and retreated toward his bedroom to prepare for the day. If Lucian wanted to sleep on his couch, fine. But when he woke up with a stiff neck and a hangover, Alex would be sure to say I told you so.
The door clicked shut behind him.
On the couch, Lucian's fingers curled protectively around the ring, even in sleep.
***
The morning light filtered through the curtains in soft golden ribbons, painting Adrian's room in shades of honey and cream. The world outside was waking up—birds singing their tentative songs, the distant hum of the estate's fountains beginning their daily symphony—but inside, time felt suspended. Frozen. Perfect.
They were tangled together like they'd been doing this for years instead of hours.
Star lay nestled in the curve of Adrian's body, her back pressed against his chest, her head resting on his arm like it had been designed specifically for that purpose. His other arm wrapped around her waist, gentle and protective, his hand resting against her stomach with an unconscious tenderness. Their fingers were interlaced—her smaller ones woven through his larger ones like threads in a tapestry.
They looked like a couple. They felt like a couple.
Adrian's eyes fluttered open, the last remnants of sleep dissolving like morning mist. For a moment, he didn't move. He just lay there, breathing in the scent of her hair—something floral, something warm, something that had already become synonymous with home in a way he wasn't ready to examine.
He lifted his head slightly, trying to see if she was awake. She wasn't. Her breathing was slow and even, her lashes dark crescents against her cheeks, her lips slightly parted in the peaceful expression of someone who'd finally found rest.
I should let her sleep, he thought. She needs it.
He began to extract himself—slowly, carefully, moving with the exaggerated caution of a man trying not to wake a sleeping lioness. He slid his arm out from under her neck, millimeter by millimeter.
Star's fingers tightened around his.
Adrian froze. Her grip was firm—deliberate—even in sleep. Like her subconscious had decided he wasn't allowed to leave. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
He checked the gold watch on the wall. 7:30 AM. Early. The house would be waking up soon, servants beginning their rounds, family members shuffling toward coffee and breakfast. But right now, in this room, the world belonged only to them.
Finally, Star's grip loosened. She shifted in her sleep, rolling onto her stomach with one leg bent at a triangle, her arm tucked beneath the pillow. She was wearing one of his shirts—a soft gray thing that swallowed her whole—and in her new position, the hem had ridden up. Way up. The fabric barely covered her upper thighs, revealing legs that were long and smooth and unfairly attractive at this hour of the morning.
Adrian bit his lip. Hard.
"Don't be a pervert," Star murmured.
Adrian's blood ran cold. She was supposed to be asleep.
He cleared his throat, straightening up with as much dignity as a man caught ogling could muster. He crossed to the built-in cupboard—mostly to put some distance between himself and the temptation of those legs—and retrieved a pack of crispy potato chips. His favorite brand. The ones he hid from Bonita specifically because she always finished them.
He grabbed the remote on his way back to bed and turned on the TV. A sitcom flickered to life—bright colors, laugh track, something mindless and cheerful.
Star turned over and propped herself against the headboard, her eyes immediately zeroing in on the chips in his hand. She stretched out her arms like a child reaching for candy.
"How did you know I'm craving those? Thanks."
Adrian frowned. "These are mine."
He opened the bag with a deliberate crinkle and held it out of her reach, settling onto the bed with the casual possessiveness of someone who'd been stealing snacks from siblings his entire life.
"You can't be serious." Star's jaw dropped in mock outrage.
She scrambled across the bed, reaching for the chips, but Adrian anticipated her move and shifted them to his other hand. Star overbalanced. Adrian overbalanced. And then they were both tumbling off the bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
Star landed on top of him with a soft oof. Adrian's arm stretched out to the side, the chips held just beyond her grasping fingers. They were both giggling now—the kind of helpless, breathless laughter that had nothing to do with jokes and everything to do with the sheer joy of being alive together.
Star pushed herself up, still laughing, and Adrian scrambled to his feet a second after her. He raised the chips high above his head, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.
"Okay, now you're just being selfish." Star planted her hands on her hips, her lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. "You're taller than me."
She flopped back onto the bed with theatrical defeat, and Adrian's smirk softened into something gentler. Something tender.
"The baby wants this, huh?" he asked, his voice dropping to a warm murmur.
Star nodded, still pouting.
Adrian's gaze drifted to her stomach—still flat, still hiding the impossible truth growing inside her. Last night, after everything that had happened on the highway, after the confession and the tears and the plan they'd made together, he'd told Dr. Mathews to come today instead. He wanted Star to have time. Time to think. Time to be sure.
But now, looking at her—this girl in his shirt, pouting over potato chips, talking to a baby that wasn't even a baby yet—he felt something strange stirring in his chest. A connection. A sense of protectiveness that extended beyond Star herself to the tiny life she carried.
It's strange, he admitted to himself. Wrong, even. Feeling connected to a pregnancy that came from... that.
But he couldn't help it.
"Gotcha!"
Star snatched the chips from his distracted hand and scooted to the far end of the bed, triumphant. Adrian blinked, realizing he'd been staring at her stomach for too long.
"So." He settled against the headboard, his voice shifting to something more serious. "Are you ready, nonetheless?"
"Ready about what?" Star's eyes were fixed on the TV, where the sitcom had launched into a particularly absurd scene. She laughed, crunching on a chip.
"For Dr. Mathews?"
Star's chewing slowed. She looked down at her stomach, then at Adrian's hand as he scooted closer and rested it gently against her belly. His thumb traced small circles through the fabric of the shirt.
"I am," she said quietly. She placed her own hand over his, their fingers overlapping. "I'm going to miss talking to her, though."
Adrian's brow furrowed. "You talk to the baby?"
"Yeah." Star's voice was soft now, almost confessional. "I tell her about my life. My stories. How her arrival ruined everything for me—" She paused, her throat tightening. "—but how it might also be a blessing. I don't know. Being pregnant really made me bond with her, even though she's just an embryo."
"How do you know it's a 'her'?"
"I feel it." Star's voice was barely a whisper now. "Like my whole body tells me it's a girl."
"You've really built a whole bond, huh?"
"Yes." She ate another chip, her expression distant. "My plan was to give birth and hand her over to an orphanage. I was raped, and every time I look at her, I might see... them." Her jaw tightened. "But she's still part of me. She's fifty percent me. And that has to count for something."
Adrian didn't say anything. He couldn't. The words caught in his throat, too heavy to speak. Instead, his fingers continued their gentle exploration—tracing the curve of her navel, the soft skin of her belly, the place where a life was growing against all odds.
Star squirmed. "Okay, that tickles."
Adrian didn't stop. His touch was light, teasing, and it was doing something to her—something that had nothing to do with tickling. Her breath caught. Her cheeks flushed.
"I need a bath."
She was off the bed before he could react, disappearing into the bathroom with speed that bordered on comical. The door clicked shut. The shower turned on.
Adrian grinned—a wide, knowing, thoroughly satisfied grin. So that's her weakness. Her navel. Good to know.
He leaned back against the headboard, listening to the sound of water running, thinking about last night. They hadn't done anything beyond kissing—they weren't ready for that, not yet—but they'd talked. Laughed. Played stupid games and gossiped about stupid things. They'd avoided the heavy topics, the looming threats, the assassination attempts and corporate conspiracies and deadlines that hung over their heads like guillotines.
For one night, they'd just been... happy.
Adrian couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this way. This light. This free. The last time he'd had a gossip buddy—someone to share chips with and laugh at bad TV with and forget the weight of the world with—had been his father. Eight years ago. Before David disappeared. Before everything fell apart.
I missed this, he realized. I missed having someone.
***
Star and Adrian descended the grand staircase together, their shoulders brushing, their steps synchronized in that unconscious way that new couples had—the gravitational pull of two people who'd spent the night wrapped around each other and weren't quite ready to separate.
The family was already assembled at the dining table. Breakfast was in full swing: plates clinking, coffee steaming, the low murmur of morning conversation filling the air. Star's eyes swept the room and landed on Tiffany, seated beside Bonita like she belonged there.
Why is she always here? Star thought, barely suppressing an eye roll. She's just Bonita's friend. Doesn't she have her own house?
"Oh, dear!" Maria's voice cut through her thoughts, sharp with concern. She half-rose from her chair, her eyes fixed on Adrian's bandaged head. "Your head! What happened?"
Adrian pulled out a chair for Star—a gesture so natural, so domestic, that several eyebrows rose around the table—and waited for her to sit before settling into the seat beside her.
"Well." He unfolded his napkin with deliberate calm. "For starters, Kefas tried to kill me."
The words landed like a grenade.
Every fork froze mid-air. Every jaw stopped chewing. Maria choked—a violent, sputtering sound that sent coffee splashing onto the tablecloth. Her face went pale, then red, then pale again.
That's not what she expected him to answer.
The silence that followed was excruciating. Because everyone at that table—everyone except perhaps St. Stark—knew exactly who Kefas was. And more importantly, whose Kefas he was.
"I want eggs," Adrian continued, as if he hadn't just detonated a bomb in the middle of breakfast. "Mashed. With two normal bread and sausages."
"Me too," Star added softly.
Adrian turned to her, one eyebrow raised in surprise. She shrugged. She didn't know why, but she was suddenly craving exactly what he was having. It was strange. It was very strange.
The maid scurried off toward the kitchen, clearly grateful for an excuse to escape the tension.
"Mom?" Bonita's voice was the first to break the silence.
"What do you mean, Kefas? What?" Christine leaned forward, her coffee forgotten.
"Yeah." Adrian's voice hardened. "Now's the time to break off that stupid affair, Mom."
Maria's mind was racing at lightspeed. What did Adrian know? What had Kefas told him? That idiot—that stupid, power-driven, impulsive idiot—could have bragged about everything. Could have exposed her completely. She needed a diversion. A distraction. Something to shift the attention away from her.
Now is the time to fake the sting.
"Ouch!" Maria's hand flew to her side, her face contorting in sudden, violent pain. Her body began to shake—convincingly, dramatically—her teeth chattering as she gripped the edge of the table.
"Mom!" Adrian was on his feet instantly, rushing to her side.
The reactions around the table were a study in contrast. Bonita stared at her mother with wide, confused eyes—she had no idea about the supposed cancer. St. Stark's weathered face creased with genuine concern. Christine's eyes narrowed into slits of pure, undisguised skepticism. The woman should have pursued acting instead of my grandson's money, she thought acidly.
And Star—
Star felt her stomach turn.
She knew. She'd overheard Christine and Maria in the garden yesterday. The cancer was a lie. A manipulation. A desperate, pathetic attempt to keep Adrian tethered to a woman who wasn't even his real mother. And watching Maria now—watching her twist and tremble and fake agony—made Star physically ill.
It reminded her of Frieda. Her father's mistress. The woman who'd destroyed her family, who was probably behind her mother's death, who'd been nothing but dramatic and manipulative and evil since the moment she'd entered their lives.
I'm not going to let this happen to Adrian. Not to him.
"Ghwaah."
Star clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders heaving. Heads swiveled toward her.
"I'm sorry—just excuse me—" She scrambled from her chair and rushed toward the downstairs bathroom.
But she didn't go to the bathroom. She slipped into the hallway, pulled out her phone, and dialed Lucian. It rang. And rang. And rang.
Voicemail.
She hung up, her jaw tight. She'd wanted to hear his voice. Wanted to ground herself in something familiar before going back into that den of lies. But Lucian wasn't answering. And she had a performance of her own to finish.
She returned to the dining room to find Adrian back in his seat, Maria's "episode" apparently resolved. Christine's eyes followed Star as she walked—those ancient, knowing eyes cataloging something Star couldn't name.
"Are we going to ignore that Mom's boyfriend attempted to kill my brother last night?" Bonita's voice cut through the tension like a blade. She was not having it. She didn't know why her mother had grunted in pain, but her main suspect had just made a move, and she needed answers.
"Kefas wants to own my company," Adrian said simply.
The breakfast arrived. Star opened a toasted bread sandwich stuffed with smoked polony and cheese, then proceeded to do something that made Adrian's eyes go wide: she shoved a portion of scrambled eggs between the layers and added a generous squeeze of tomato sauce on top.
"Oh my god." Adrian stared at her creation with something approaching religious awe. "That looks delicious."
"Let me do it for you," Star said, already assembling an identical monstrosity for him.
While she worked, Adrian narrated the previous night's events to his family—the attack, the assassins, Kefas's gloating confession. He omitted one crucial detail: that Kefas had admitted to killing David and that it's Star who killed the assasina. His mother was sick. He wasn't going to make her suffer through the knowledge that she'd been sleeping with her husband's murderer.
"I always warned David," St. Stark said, his voice heavy with old grief. "There are no friends in business. But he had a good, big heart."
"Nah." Adrian shook his head. "Love and friendship are for people who truly cherish it and know what it means. This isn't a game." He picked up the remote and turned on the city news. "So here's his arrest."
On the screen, Kefas Sterling was being led from his office in handcuffs, his long ponytail disheveled, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. The headline scrolled beneath: BILLIONAIRE ARRESTED FOR TRIPLE HOMICIDE—BODIES FOUND AT RENOVATION SITE.
Adrian smirked at Star. Star smirked back, handing him the sandwich she'd made.
"He has lawyers. Great ones, even." St. Stark's voice was measured. "He'll be out on bail in no time."
"I know," Adrian said around a mouthful of the strange, delicious sandwich. "But his stocks will drop massively. He'll go back ten steps."
"I'm proud of you, son," Maria said, her eyes glistening with tears.
They weren't tears of pride. They were tears of fury, of grief, of desperation. Because one minute ago, she'd wished Adrian had truly died. She loved Kefas—really loved him—and now he was going to be convicted, labeled a murderer, bankrupted. And they'd have to hide their relationship all over again.
"Excuse me." She rose and retreated upstairs.
Star and Adrian ate like they hadn't seen food in weeks. Adrian cut his sausage in half, carefully removing the top membrane just enough to add spices and tomato slices. Star watched him, then demanded one exactly the same. To them, it was the most delicious thing in the world.
Christine watched. And frowned.
Weird food combos. Shared cravings. The way they mirror each other without noticing.
She remembered when she'd been pregnant with David, just weeks along. She'd craved the strangest things—pickles and honey, sardines and jam. And Lucian—David's father, her beloved husband—had inherited those cravings. Anything she wanted, he wanted too. Anything he craved, she suddenly needed. It had been their strange, inexplicable bond.
But that can't be the case here. Can it?
Adrian had told them about Star. About his feelings. About how he thought she might feel the same. But had he confessed? Gotten her pregnant? Did Star really sleep on the ninth floor, or did she sleep in Adrian's room?
"Oh my god! Get a room!"
Tiffany's voice shattered Christine's thoughts. The girl was practically vibrating with rage, watching Star and Adrian eat their weird food combinations and flirt shamelessly across the table. It was bad enough she had to witness this. Now they were rubbing salt in her wounds.
Tiffany shoved back from the table and stormed outside, desperate for air that wasn't thick with Star and Adrian's suffocating chemistry.
On the television, Kefas's arrest footage gave way to a commercial. Bonita stood, her eyes still lingering on the screen.
"Excuse me," she murmured, and slipped away.
Now it was just St. Stark, Christine, Star, and Adrian—the latter two still demolishing their strange breakfast creations.
"Are you feeling okay, dear?" St. Stark asked, his kind eyes on Star.
"Yes, Sir, I—"
"Call me Saint." The old man cut her off gently, a warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Family calls me Saint. I'm the merchant of the Stark family."
Star's throat tightened. Family. He'd called her family.
"I'm doing well, Saint," she said, her voice soft with gratitude.
"Adrian is a good man," Christine chimed in. "And I'm sure he'll make a good father and a husband."
The words landed like a thunderclap.
Adrian's head snapped toward his grandmother. Star's juice went down the wrong pipe, and she choked, spluttering. They both stared at Christine with identical expressions of shock and horror.
She knows. How does she know?
"I didn't want to say this while Mom was here," Adrian said, clearing his throat and changing the subject with the grace of a man fleeing a burning building, "but Kefas told me he killed Dad."
"What!" Christine's voice came out louder than a woman her age should have been capable of.
"Shh!" Adrian glanced around, making sure Maria wasn't lurking somewhere nearby. "I know he'll be out on bail, but I'll try to get a recorded confession from him. Nail his ass. Bankrupt his company. I'm making calls."
"My poor David," St. Stark whispered, his eyes glistening. The old man gripped his lion-headed walking stick and rose slowly, his shoulders heavy with grief. Without another word, he left the dining room.
"I don't believe it," Christine said, her voice steel. "My son is not dead. Kefas is trying to throw you off something bigger. You need to be careful."
Adrian frowned. "What do you think, Grandma? Because I feel it too."
"I'll explain later. But first..." Christine's sharp eyes darted between them. "Are you two pregnant?"
Star choked again—this time on air.
Adrian's face went through several shades of panic. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them needed to. The silence was confession enough.
"I... I am," Star finally said.
Christine's expression flickered—hope, confusion, disappointment. Adrian opened his mouth to explain, but Star beat him to it.
"I was raped. And now I'm pregnant."
The words came out steady. Calm. She didn't know why she'd said it—didn't know why she trusted Christine with this truth. Maybe it was the way the old woman had stood up to Maria in the garden. Maybe it was the fierce love in her eyes when she looked at Adrian. Whatever the reason, Star felt like Christine was someone who could handle the truth.
"Oh..." Christine's face softened. Disappointment mingled with something else—something that looked almost like disbelief. But before she could probe further, the elevator chimed.
Dr. Mathews stepped into the dining room, his leather bag in hand.
"Dr. Mathews!" Adrian rose immediately, relief flooding his features.
Star stood too. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, the three of them headed to the ninth floor.
The medical room felt different this morning. Smaller. More intimate. The machines that had once crowded around Star's bed were silent now, pushed to the corners. Dr. Mathews had brought something new—a machine that looked, in Star's opinion, disturbingly like a grinder.
She lay on the bed, her hands folded across her stomach. Adrian sat beside her, gripping her fingers with a gentleness that belied the tension in his shoulders. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his temples.
I'm nervous, he realized. Why am I nervous? He should be happy that Star's finally getting rid of the unfortunate baby, but he is not happy. Hés not even trying to be happy.
"Are you ready?" Dr. Mathews asked.
Star's eyes fixed on the machine. "What's that?"
"Let's just say the baby—well, the embryo—from there is going to be grinded in here, through the pipe I'm going to insert in you."
The words hit Star like a physical blow. Grinded. Pipe. Insert.
Something deep inside her recoiled. This felt wrong. Creepy. Horrific.
"I thought I was just taking some pills," she said, her voice rising. "It's just been weeks."
"Nope." Dr. Mathews's expression was unreadable. "This is the only method I've got."
Star swallowed hard. Her mouth went dry. Adrian squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing circles against her palm.
"I'm here," he reminded her.
But Star's mind was racing. The baby was part of her. Fifty percent her. And she was just going to let it go? Let it be ground up and sucked through a pipe and flushed away like it was nothing? It came from the hooligans who'd destroyed her life—it would always remind her of that horrific event—but was it fair? Was any of this fair? How would she feel afterward? Empty? Relieved? Haunted?
Dr. Mathews applied a clear ultrasound gel to her lower abdomen. The cold made her flinch.
He placed the handheld transducer against her belly and moved it in slow, rocking motions. Searching.
Then—
A sound filled the room.
Fast. Gentle. Alive.
Dr. Mathews amplified it through the speaker, and suddenly the room was nothing but that sound—a tiny, galloping heartbeat, impossibly fast, impossibly strong. Star felt her chest constrict. Adrian's grip on her hand tightened.
Silence. No one spoke. No one breathed.
"There he is..." Dr. Mathews's voice was soft. Almost reverent. Then, abruptly clinical: "Now let's flush you out."
He reached for the pipe.
"Nope!"
Star's voice nearly hit the ceiling. She sat bolt upright, one hand flying to her stomach, the other grabbing the sheet to wipe off the gel with frantic, protective movements.
"I changed my mind."
The words came out fierce. Final. There was no hesitation in them. No doubt.
"Oh, good!" Adrian exhaled so hard he nearly deflated. His hand pressed against his own heart, which was still racing. "Oh, thank god."
Star looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the relief flooding his features. He hadn't wanted this. He'd supported her decision, would have held her hand through the whole thing, but he hadn't wanted it.
"Great," Dr. Mathews said, setting down the pipe with a small, knowing smile. "Now you know how you really feel about the baby."
Adrian's head snapped toward the doctor. "You weren't planning on doing it, were you? You were just testing her."
"Yes." Dr. Mathews shook his head, his smile fading into something gentler. "When you carry that baby, have him, and nurse him—he'll be the best, cutest little thing you'll want to protect with all you've got."
The doctor's voice was quiet. Distant. The voice of a man who'd never had children of his own, but who understood—perhaps better than anyone—what it meant to not want a child, and what it meant to change your mind.
Star surged off the bed and threw her arms around him.
Dr. Mathews stiffened, clearly caught off guard. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air for a moment before settling on her back in a gentle, paternal pat.
"Thank you, sir," Star whispered into his shoulder. "Thank you."