Page 137 of Royal Bargain
“I fainted,” I continue, the memory rising sharp and clear now. “I thought it was just stress, but they ran tests. I was out cold for nearly an hour. And when I woke up…”
The words catch in my throat.
“I found out I was pregnant.”
The warehouse stills again. Like something holy just broke.
Anatoly stares at me, stunned silent.
“I have medical records,” I press, breath quickening. “Bloodwork. A timestamped admission form. I wasn’t even awake when those files were taken. If someone used my keycard, they had to have cloned it. They had to have planned it. Framed me.”
I let the next words sink, each one like a stone.
“You want to talk about betrayal? Then look at the person who wanted me gone so badly, they made sure the moment I left… I couldn’t ever come back.”
My eyes drift sideways, landing on him.
Dariy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. But I see it. That slight clench of his jaw. The calculation flickering behind his eyes. Not surprised. Not outraged.
Just… caught.
Papa’s expression shifts—slow, subtle, terrifying.
The rage falters.
In its place, disbelief. Horror. A flash of something like grief.
Someone set me up. And for the first time, he sees it.
“I didn’t know,” he murmurs, voice hollow.
“I know,” I whisper. “Because you didn’t want to.”
His hand drops from my arm.
But I don’t breathe. Not yet. Not with the Brannagan brothers still standing across the floor, weapons drawn. Not with the Russians just as armed, just as ready. Not with a single spark poised to turn this entire room into a massacre.
And not when I spot movement—just barely—along the warehouse edge.
A glimmer of metal. A boot sliding across the concrete.
One of the Brannagan men. Slipping through the shadows, weaving through crates and scaffolding, trying to find a better position. Another follows close behind.
My pulse stutters.
I have to keep them distracted. Keep him distracted.
So I do what I’ve always done best—I perform.
“She’s mine,” I say softly. “My daughter.”
Anatoly looks at me again, as if seeing me for the first time.
“She’s named Lily,” I say, my voice trembling. “And she has your smile.”
His breath catches.
“She’s only five months,” I continue, stalling for time, each word weighted, deliberate. “She loves music. I sing to her at night, and she gets this little smile like she understands every word.”
