"What do you want?!"
The words rang out in the gold-plated room like a slap. Bold. Reckless. Completely un-Alexandra.
The man hesitated half-way across the room. His eyes—ice-blue and impassive—cruised into mine. He didn't blink. He didn't even lift an eyebrow. Just… blinked. Slowly. Like a bored cat.
Then he made a low, clipped sound.
"I heard… you're pregnant."
Ah. So it speaks.
"Yes," I replied bluntly, my hands fluttering around the hand-embroidered blanket. "That's typically what occurs when your husband rolls over and sleeps with you inadvertently."
His jaw clenched—just. His hands, which had been peacefully crossed behind his back, now curled minimally at his sides. Ah ha. A nerve.
"Well," he said after a silence that could have frozen, "I'll ensure the physician sees you equipped adequately."
I blinked. That's it? No apology? No guilt? No sheepish explanation for getting me confused with Ghost Girlfriend?
"That's awfully kind of you," I snapped dryly, "given I'm the one carrying your 'oops' baby."
His eyes narrowed. I'd struck a nerve. But rather than snapping, or marching away, he moved deliberately toward the bed. Every step seemed to reverberate with judgment.
When he finally halted at the bed's foot, he regarded me—not with alarm, not even with rage, but with… calculation.
"You've been acting weird," he said. "You're normally silent. Submissive. You've never spoken loudly to me."
I smiled, all teeth and no heat.
"Guess pregnancy brings out the personality I never had a chance to display."
There was another beat of silence.
Then he said something I wasn't looking for.
You don't have to pretend. You don't have to be the loving wife. I'll take care of my duties, and once the child is born, you'll be provided for. Quietly."
My blood was boiling.
Provided for?
Quietly?
Did that mean 'you can slip away quietly after giving birth to my heir'?
"Oh," I said, tone honey-sweet. "You mean I can die with a clear conscience without inconveniencing you. That's sweet.
He blinked. Again. His idea of a gasp, I assumed.
"I didn't mean—"
"No, no. I understand," I interrupted, waving my hand in a dismissing motion as if shooing him off. "You've already fulfilled your obligation. Impregnated the problem. You can now return to grieving your one true love while I silently bleed to death."
For the first time, I saw something flicker on his face. Not guilt. Not sympathy. Just. confusion. Like the woman in front of him wasn't the one in his memories.
Perhaps because she wasn't.
"I think you should go," I told him, my eyes narrowing. "I'm pregnant, cranky, and on the verge of tossing this pillow into your stoic face."
He looked at me. A slow pause. And then—
He left.
Didn't say another word. Just got up and walked out like a gorgeous, emotionally constipated statue.
The door shut behind him with a click.
I collapsed back against the absurd mountain of pillows with a groan.
"What a man," I said, gazing at the ceiling. "Too good-looking to toss out, too inconsiderate to keep."