CHAPTER 4

Kathy's POV

The post-climax silence in the Royal Suite was shattered by the sound of his flippant dismissal. He had just staked a biological claim on me, and now his only concern was whether I'd complain about the size of the pizza slice.

“You-you came inside of me.” The words emerged tight, strained, the residue of my pleasure instantly replaced by a cold spike of professional and personal terror.

He sat up, utterly unconcerned, his body still magnificent, radiating a predatory ease. “That’s a problem?” Basil withdrew, and the sudden emptiness, coupled with the slow, disconcerting seep of his warmth, made my panic immediate.

I sat up, holding the sheet to my chest, my gaze fixed on the place where the liquid proof of his carelessness slowly dried onto the fine Egyptian cotton. “I’m not on anything. No pill. No IUD.”

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something calculating-not worry-crossing his eyes. “Well, I certainly didn’t feel the last one, so no, you’re not.”

The sheer audacity of his logic paralyzed me. My internal script-the one dictating my mission, my professional facade, my controlled life-had no contingency for this. Pregnancy? With the target?

“Do you want to get me pregnant or something?” I demanded, my voice rising.

He looked me over, his gaze slow, appraising, settling on my breasts and belly before returning to my face with a terrifyingly sincere smile. “Fuck, that would actually be incredibly sexy. I thought you couldn’t get more perfect, but those milk-filled boobs and that little baby belly? You’d be even hotter.”

The breath left my lungs. He wasn't joking. This was the dark, twisted reality of the Cavendish world: their desires weren't just met; they were instantly manifested, consequences be damned. What was more frightening than his exposed cock had been was the fact he was already mentally dressing me in the maternal uniform of his own perverse fantasy.

“I have not even known you for one day, and you want to father a child with me?

“You're the one who likes taking care of kids. I thought you would be thrilled at the prospect.” The sardonic grin told me he knew exactly how much he was twisting the knife. He wasn't dense; he was deliberately provocative. He was testing the absolute limits of my composure.

"God," I whispered, rubbing my temples. My head was spinning. The best sex of my life—the rush of breaking my own rules for a high-stakes entry—had just delivered the ultimate landmine.

Basil stood and began gathering his bespoke clothes. The motion was efficient, cutting the conversation short, reducing the intensity of the moment to a logistical issue. “Don’t worry about it. Anything happens, I’ll take care of it. It’s not like I don’t have the money. I could afford you giving me two dozen kids and not even put a dent in the bank.”

Two dozen. Hyperbole. But the casual confidence with which he claimed ownership over my reproductive future made my stomach churn. It wasn't about the money; it was the control. The child wouldn't be a product of love, as I'd always believed, but an extension of his wealth and ego.

He stretched languidly. “Mi casa es su casa. I'll get a key made for you and get you all the codes and stuff you need—garage passwords, Wi-Fi info, you know, the works.”

“You’re just going to walk away?” I asked, forcing myself to look past the financial reassurances and back to the immediate, reckless act.

"I hate to fuck and dash, but I still have business to attend to. All of this stuff with hiring you, you know, was just so damn sudden." He said this while getting his trousers on, not looking at me at all.

It came on so damn suddenly. The reckless abandonment of caution, the immediate penetration, the finish without protection was part of his spontaneous, toxic control.

“Take it easy. I think Tifania is back. You should go introduce yourself and get to know her; form a bond, a rapport. She's a playful girl, even if as her brother I'm also supposed to inform you that she's an utter brat.”

My head wobbled again in utter disbelief: he had just finished explaining that my main job was to spy on his sister and now he gave me trite nanny advice.

“Actually, it's getting on toward her bedtime. Proper introductions might have to wait until tomorrow,” he said, tugging on his jacket. The transformation was complete: demanding lover to detached CEO.

Why was he prioritizing his business, why when I was stuck in a biological crisis? Because that was his world. My fear was an inconvenience; his data trading paramount.

The logical part of me screamed: Run. Get the morning-after pill. Expose him.

But a deeper, more dangerous voice whispered: You can't run. You have the access. You have the leverage. He thinks he won, but he just gave you the ultimate tool to destroy him or his brother.

I needed a focus. Something simple. Something honest.

Tifania.

“I’ll go,” I said finally, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, reaching for the silk robe he’d thrown earlier. “I’ll start with Tifania.”

He shot me a quick, approving glance. “Good. See you in the morning. And don’t worry about anything. I told you, I’ll take care of it.”

I watched the door close behind him, the lock clicking softly but definitively. I was alone, naked beneath a strange man's silk, his semen warm and heavy inside me, and potentially carrying his child. But I had the key to his suite, the code to the house, and the lead on the Blackwell Vault and the "green file."

I stood, the robe cinching around my waist, and suddenly felt less like a victim and more like a mole deep behind enemy lines. I had a crisis on my hands, but I also had a mission to complete for my family, Rafael Montalvo and Mariela Montalvo.

First, find a pharmacy. Second, find the girl who knows the secrets.