In the security headquarters nestled in one of the discreet high-rise buildings owned by the Salvador conglomerate, Blake sat behind a sleek mahogany desk, dressed in a sharply tailored dark suit. His expression, as always, was unreadable—stoic, composed, like a man who'd seen too much and trusted too little.
One of his younger operatives, Marcus, entered the room, looking unsure.
"Sir," Marcus said, offering a tablet. "You asked for the morning update on Madam."
Blake raised an eyebrow but took the device. On the screen was a series of timestamped images and short footage clips—Cassidy Calista walking into Roseland Hospital, alone, early that morning. Later, her exiting with a small paper bag—likely from the hospital pharmacy.
Blake didn't react much, just studied the footage in silence. He tapped once to zoom in.
Marcus cleared his throat nervously. "Sir, it's Roseland. That's not a general hospital. It's almost exclusively OB-GYN and women's health. Do we… do we notify Mr. Salvador?"
Blake's eyes lifted slowly. "No."
"But—"
"Marcus." Blake's voice was calm, but sharp enough to slice through steel. "Do you remember what I told you when I first brought you in?"
Marcus stiffened. "Always report to you. Never directly to Mr. Salvador unless told otherwise."
"Good. And what else?"
"Only escalate if there's a direct threat. Or an emergency."
Blake set the tablet down and leaned forward slightly. "Is she in danger?"
"No."
"Was she followed, harassed, or attacked?"
"No, sir."
"Then this is not your concern. Not yet."
Marcus hesitated again. "But what if she's… pregnant?"
Blake let out a breath and leaned back. For a moment, he just looked at the younger man, studying him.
"Let me ask you something," he said coolly. "Do you know she's pregnant?"
Marcus shifted. "No, sir. But it's Roseland. She picked up something from the pharmacy—"
"Prenatal supplements, or a prescription for migraines. You don't know." Blake's voice remained calm, but firm. "And even if she is pregnant, that's still not your decision to act on."
"But… shouldn't we let the boss know?"
Blake stood up slowly, his six-foot-two frame casting a commanding presence across the room. He walked around the desk and stopped a few inches in front of Marcus.
"If Madam is pregnant," he said, voice low, "and she hasn't told him… do you want to be the one to break that news? What if she wants to surprise him? You want to ruin that?"
Marcus shook his head quickly.
Blake sighed quietly and turned to face him fully. "You know the protocol. You report to me. And I only report to Mr. Salvador if something urgent, dangerous, or important happens—or if he asks directly. If he doesn't ask, we don't say a word."
Blake muttered. "And you don't ruin something that may be deeply personal. You don't jump to conclusions based on one hospital visit. And you never assume you know more than the people involved."
There was a pause, then Blake added, more to himself than to Marcus, "If she's carrying his child, he'll find out when she wants him to. And if she isn't… then we'd have caused unnecessary chaos for nothing."
He looked back at Marcus.
"You think I'm crazy enough to interfere with something that sensitive?"
"No, sir. I understand. I'll follow protocol."
Blake nodded once. "Good. Keep your eyes open. Report only to me. No exceptions."
As Marcus turned to leave, Blake looked back down at the still image of Cassidy on the screen, her expression unreadable, just like his own.
Roseland… he thought. Let's hope this doesn't turn into something none of us are ready for.
***
The morning sun had shifted toward afternoon, casting a golden hue across the wide windows of Cassidy's apartment. The faint scent of bergamot from her half-finished tea still lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp scent of paper and pencil graphite on her desk. Dressed in a soft oversized sweater and cotton lounge pants, Cassidy sat in her home studio—her sanctuary and workspace rolled into one.
Sketchbooks lay open across the table, filled with flowing lines and half-formed silhouettes of dresses and coats she had envisioned. She had been working on a new collection—something elegant, clean, and timeless. But today, the fabric swatches felt dull. The lines refused to come together. Her mind kept drifting elsewhere.
While sketching the silhouette of her newest clothing design, Cassidy found herself pausing more often than usual. Her pencil hovered above the page, lines unfinished, thoughts wandering. Eventually, she set the sketchbook aside, reaching for her tablet instead.
With a soft sigh, she opened the browser and began typing:
"First pregnancy – what to expect in the first trimester."
Then, "Best food for early pregnancy."
"How to take care of yourself during early pregnancy."
"Prenatal development – 8 weeks."
Article after article appeared, and she read through them quietly, absorbing every line. Her gaze softened as she scrolled past images of tiny embryos, growing safely inside wombs.
She learned that fatigue was common, that nausea could come and go, that her emotions might feel unpredictable. She read about folic acid, calcium, iron, DHA. About the importance of sleep, hydration, and staying calm.
Cassidy leaned back in her chair, letting her eyes drift toward the window. So much was happening inside her—so quietly, so invisibly—yet it was changing everything.
She whispered to herself, "I may not love him, but I won't let that stop me from giving you the father you deserve. I'll do everything I can for you, little one. "
***
Cassidy parked her car across the street from Zeke's apartment, eyes steady as they scanned the building. The sky was bright, a typical crisp New York afternoon, and traffic moved lazily down the road.
She hadn't come here out of longing or nostalgia. She wasn't here because she missed him. She didn't love Zeke—she never had. But she was carrying his child now. And no matter how things ended between them, she believed one thing with certainty: a father deserved to know his child, and a child deserved the truth about their parents.
It was that simple. She wasn't going to ask for anything. She didn't want him back. She wasn't here to beg, or to stir the past. Cassidy had long outgrown the fairytales of reconciliation. What she wanted was clarity—for her child, not for herself.
But just as her hand reached for the door, ready to cross the street, she saw a familiar figure walking out of the building.
That woman. The same one who had been with Zeke—the one Cassidy had seen once before, back when everything had unraveled.
The woman wasn't trying to hide. She exited the building with ease, shoulders relaxed, as though she belonged. Cassidy paused. She didn't panic. She didn't freeze. She simply observed.
And in that moment, the decision shifted.
Zeke had likely moved on. Maybe he was in a relationship. Maybe he was happy. And whatever was between them—whatever had never been between them—was not something she wanted to disrupt. She didn't want her child to be seen as a mistake or, worse, a burden.
Not like she once was made to feel by her own family.
With a quiet breath, Cassidy pulled her hand back from the door. She didn't need to storm in and inform him. She didn't need to disrupt his peace.
She started the car again, quietly driving away from the street, never looking back.
Now, in the solitude of her apartment, Cassidy curled a protective hand around her belly.
Her legs gave way just enough for her to sit heavily on the couch. The tears slipped out before she could stop them—hot, quiet, and unfamiliar.
"Damn hormones," she muttered, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand, frustrated more than anything. "Get a grip, Cassidy."
After the tears had dried and her breath steadied, Cassidy sat in silence, one hand resting gently over her stomach. Her eyes were clear now—red from crying, but firm with resolve.
She couldn't be selfish. Whatever confusion, disappointment, or fear she felt, this wasn't just about her anymore. It was about the tiny life growing inside her.
"I have to do what's best for you," she whispered, brushing a thumb across her belly.
She reached for her phone. Her fingers hesitated above Zeke's name in her contacts list, but after a moment of deliberation, she tapped it. The call rang, and her heart thudded louder with every second.
Then—click.
A woman's voice answered.
"Hello?"
Cassidy froze. Her grip on the phone tightened.
"…Cassidy?" the woman said again, this time with recognition in her tone.
Cass swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.
"Can I speak to Zeke?" she asked quietly.
There was a pause.
"He's in the shower," the woman replied.
That was all Cassidy needed to hear. Without another word, she ended the call.
Her hand dropped to her lap, and her eyes stared ahead, unreadable. Whatever words she had prepared, whatever courage she had gathered, all dissipated in that single moment.
She sat there a little longer, hand over her belly, whispering softly to the life inside her.
"You're mine," she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. "And I will love you enough for the both of us."
***