Cassian POV- Executive Wing
The merger terms stared back at him, still waiting.
Cassian scrolled through the draft engagement clause, one line at a time, though he didn't need to. He knew every word. What it implied. What it had cost.
It wasn't a lie, exactly. It's just a trade.
One future for another. Political alignment dressed in personal fiction.
He pushed the tablet aside.
It felt like paperweight now.
Across the room, sunlight filtered through frosted glass. It struck the edge of the decanter, catching the edge of a shadow but not enough to warm the space.
Celeste had left a message this morning. The same clipped tone. The exact polished timing. A reminder for a brunch he had no intention of attending.
He hadn't responded.
And he wouldn't.
Something had already shifted. Quiet. Unstoppable.
Lyra Elmont.
He didn't know what exactly she'd done to him. Just that it wouldn't undo, she moved through rooms like she didn't belong, then left them sharper. Smarter. Full of questions, he couldn't stop turning over.
He thought of her again.
The tremble in her shoulders last week. The way her fingers curled tight around that pen like it could anchor her upright.
He was going to end it. The engagement. The whole performance.
If the merger stalled, it stalled.
But he wouldn't want to live the rest of his life wondering what might've happened if he'd chosen her instead.
---
Lyra POV - Breakroom
"You've been staring at that tea bag for ten minutes," Talia said, sitting across from her.
Lyra blinked and dropped the spoon.
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
Talia didn't push right away. Just watched.
The breakroom buzzed distantly with hallway noise. Somewhere down the corridor, a printer choked on a queue.
Finally, Talia asked, "Still thinking about telling him?"
Lyra nodded slowly.
"Then what's stopping you?"
Lyra stared at the pale ring of steam around her cup. "Not fear that he doesn't remember. I know he does."
Talia tilted her head. "Then?"
"The fallout. What it means. For him. For me. For the baby."
Silence. Then Lyra added, almost too quietly, "He said I could trust him."
Talia watched her for a long beat. "Then what are you waiting for?"
---
Cassian POV
Theo dropped the latest logs on his desk.
Cassian didn't look up until the name caught his eye.
> Scheduled Referral: Wellness Check – L. Elmont
> Assigned Clinic: Corporate-affiliated. Date: TBA (3 days)
His jaw tensed.
She hadn't said a word. Had looked thinner all week. Paler. Her voice was too steady. Her hands were too still.
And now this.
He ran a finger along the corner of the file and pushed it aside. His eyes drifted toward the window, but he didn't see anything past his reflection.
She was hurting. Hiding something.
And if he didn't ask, she might never tell him.
But if he did...
---
Lyra POV - Strategic Wing
The floor was mostly empty. The overhead lights dimmed to save energy, and a few systems purred in standby.
Lyra sat at her desk, hands still on the keys. The audit was complete. The screen confirmed success, but she felt no relief.
Her eyes drifted to the handkerchief beside her keyboard.
White cotton. Folded. Clean.
His.
She hadn't returned it. Didn't know how.
Her body moved before her mind caught up.
Ten minutes later, she stood at the edge of the executive wing.
Glass. Steel. Frosted quiet.
She didn't belong here. Not after hours. Not like this.
But her feet didn't move.
Then, a familiar voice.
"Theo."
He stood beside her without a word, taking in the handkerchief in her hand and the look in her eyes. He said nothing.
Then walked past her, opened the door to Cassian's office, and stepped aside.
No explanation. No permission.
Just a space she could choose to enter.
And she did.
—
The door opened before he could decide whether to call for her.
She stood just inside, her fingers curled around the handkerchief he'd given days ago. Still white. Still folded, touched often, if the creases meant anything.
He stood instinctively. Then paused.
Lyra didn't move forward. But she didn't leave.
He watched the hesitation in her hands, the pressure in her eyes.
So he didn't speak first. Just stepped back and motioned gently to the seat across from his.
She sat without a word.
The room settled into a silence that wasn't heavy. Only waiting.
Her fingers curled tighter around the cloth. Then, softly:
"Did you find… an earring?"
Her voice cracked at the end.
He blinked. "Yes."
Her eyes flicked up.
"I kept it safe."
She nodded once. Exhaled. "It belonged to my grandmother."
Something in her expression loosened at his answer. The corners of her mouth tilted. Not quite a smile, not quite relief.
He didn't push further.
"Whatever's wrong," he said, "I'll fix it. If you let me."
Her hand curled tighter.
Then she shook her head.
Not no, just overwhelmed.
Her breath stuttered. Her shoulders drew tight. And for a second, he thought she might stand and run. But she didn't.
A tear fell.
He moved slowly.
His hand hovered near her shoulder before it settled there, light as paper.
She didn't flinch.
So he moved beside her. Sat quietly. Waited.
And then she leaned.
Not fully. Just enough to find the shape of comfort.
When her body folded into his chest, she trembled. Not from the cold.
From the weight she'd been carrying.
Her tears soaked into the fabric of his shirt, and his arms closed around her, gentle, anchoring. He said nothing. Just held her while she shook.
The tears didn't last forever.
Eventually, her breathing slowed. She pulled back slightly, not fully separating. Just enough to find his eyes.
"I'm pregnant."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic.
It was the kind of truth that lives under the skin.
He didn't speak right away. His breath caught once. Then he looked down at her hand still fisted in the handkerchief. The tension in her jaw. The fear she couldn't quite swallow.
And he understood.
Not just the words.
The reason for her silence. The fragility in her steps. The strange way her scent still echoed under his skin, sharper now, instinct whispering truths she hadn't dared say aloud.
He didn't ask who the father was.
He didn't have to.
His voice was low. "You're sure?"
She nodded. "Seven weeks."
Cassian closed his eyes once. Then opened them. He looked at her not like a man unraveling. But like someone deciding, slowly, carefully, that the ground could shift and still hold.
"Thank you," he said.
Lyra stared. "For what?"
"For trusting me."
She blinked hard. "I didn't know if I should."
"You still don't."
She let out a quiet breath.
He shifted slightly, not breaking contact. "Whatever you decide. Clinic, registration, even if you don't want me involved. I'll support it."
"You think I want this?"
"No," he said. "I think you're afraid. And I don't blame you."
Her eyes burned. She looked down.
"I didn't plan for this. I didn't expect you to remember anything. You were—"
"Drunk," he finished. "But not unaware."
She finally looked up.
"I remember all of it," he said. "Every second."
Silence fell again, this one heavier.
Then, softly, he added, "You don't have to do this alone."
She didn't reply.
But she didn't pull away, either