Lyra's POV
The clinic smelled like filtered air and expensive intentions.
The receptionist didn't ask questions. Just handed her a clipboard with quiet efficiency. The Virelux Executive Wellness wing didn't feel like a medical facility. It felt like a contract waiting to be signed. Pale wood, curved glass, and silence.
Talia sat beside her, thumbing through a pamphlet on metabolic resilience.
"You okay?" she asked, not looking up.
Lyra nodded. Her hands didn't move.
"This place is discreet. No one leaks. And the doctor's an omega. She won't push."
Another nod. How does Talia know all of that?
Twelve minutes passed. Then Lyras's name was called.
The hallway swallowed her. Soft carpet. Too many curated photos of coastlines and fog.
Dr. H. Narelle was calm and precise. Her voice had the tone of someone who'd seen worse and wouldn't flinch.
Vitals, history, questions. Lyra answered what she could.
Then the exam.
The gel was cold. The wand is even colder.
Silence stretched.
Then—
A sound, faint but firm.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The doctor adjusted the monitor. "Nine weeks and two days. Strong heartbeat."
Lyra didn't breathe.
Talia had gone still in the corner, eyes glassy.
The sound echoed like something rooted deeper than muscle or bone.
"Everything looks good," Dr. Narelle continued. "I'll prescribe a stabilizer for your energy levels. And you'll need to eat properly. No skipping meals."
Lyra nodded.
"I'll send the wellness summary to the Executive Office. They're flagged to receive before HR."
Lyra blinked. "Why?"
"Your case was upgraded. CEO authorization."
She didn't speak. Didn't move. Only nodded again.
---
Cassian's POV
The report came flagged and encrypted.
> Patient: Elmont, L.
Clinic Follow-Up – 9 Weeks
He read it twice.
Heartbeat was strong. Energy low. Recommend rest and nutritional support.
He didn't need the reminder. He'd seen how she moved lately. Focused in bursts, then fading. Something in her had shifted, even before the report made it real.
He slid open his desk drawer.
The earring still waited inside.
He didn't hesitate.
He routed the wellness file through executive filters. Delayed the HR sync. Flagged the entire situation as priority-discreet. If someone dug, they'd find privacy seals, executive override, and vague notes about occupational fatigue.
If they questioned it, they could ask him directly.
He hoped they would.
—
Lyra POV – Clinic Parking Lot
The car beeped as Talia unlocked it, but she didn't move.
Lyra stood beside her.
"That sound," Lyra whispered. "The heartbeat."
"Still ringing in my ears," Talia said.
"It made it real."
"It is real."
Lyra didn't respond.
Talia leaned on the hood. "So. When are you going to tell him?"
"I already did."
Talia smiled.
---
Lyra's Apartment
Her phone buzzed.
> Unknown Number: This is my private line. Use it if you want. —C
She stared.
Then:
> C: Did everything go smoothly today?
> L: The clinic was quiet. The doctor was kind. Baby's strong.
The words looked strange on screen. Her thumb hovered.
> C: I'm glad. Anything you need, you ask.
> L: I don't want to be a burden.
> C: You're not. Please don't make me repeat that.
> L: Thank you. For today. And the noodles.
There was a pause.
Then:
> C: Next time I'll bring them in person. Saturday okay?
> L: Bring pizza. And sparkling water.
He replied with a single dot.
She laughed, quietly.
---
Theo's POV – Executive Lobby
Theo wasn't someone who jumped to conclusions. But after twenty-seven days of watching Cassian glance too often toward the strategic floor, he wasn't jumping anymore.
He was cataloguing.
The missed gala debrief, his MIA in the middle of gala night.
The morning two weeks ago, Cassian came in late. Disheveled. Hung over. Off.
Then came the care orders. The meal notes. The clinic.
Now this.
Cassian had rerouted HR reviews. Tagged a single employee file for priority. Assigned executive privileges for a support tier rarely granted outside contracted partners.
Theo knew what it looked like.
He also knew what it meant.
He didn't ask questions.
He just watched the floor for fractures.
---
Cassian's POV
He didn't mean to text again.
But the file, her voice, her silence. They didn't leave him.
He typed:
> C: Sleep well. Eat something warm. I mean it.
A pause.
Then:
> L: I did. Tea and rice noodles. You?
He almost smiled.
> C: Leftovers. Not as good.
> L: I doubt that.
> C: You'll see Saturday. You're not getting rid of me that easily.
The screen dimmed, but her name lingered.
Just like everything else