CHAPTER 4: The Confrontation

"I'm tired, Iris."

Three words. The door-closing tone. The one that means we're done before we've started.

He walks through the room like I'm furniture, loosening his tie, smelling of whiskey and her perfume. That floral, expensive scent. Stronger now than it was at dinner.

I've been sitting on the edge of this bed for two hours. Rehearsing this conversation until the words have grooves in my mind. Calm. Clear. Direct.

I stand.

"We need to talk."

"I'm tired, Iris." The tie lands on the chair. Misses. He doesn't pick it up.

"This won't take long."

"It never does. And then somehow an hour passes."

Three years of shrinking myself down to take up less of his time, and he still thinks I ask for too much of it.

"Damon." Steadier than I expected. "Look at me."

He stops. Turns his head slightly. Not all the way.

I reach into my purse and hold up the test.

"I'm pregnant."

He goes completely still. Shirt half-unbuttoned, one hand raised. Three seconds. Four. Then he turns around, takes the test from my hand, holds it to the light, and sets it on the nightstand.

Steps back. Arms cross.

"How?"

The question is so absurd I think I've misheard it.

"The usual way. You're my husband."

"We barely..." He stops. His jaw works. "I don't remember."

"Last month. After the full moon run. You came home and you—"

"I was drunk."

Sharp. Fast. And what's in his eyes when they find mine makes the back of my throat ache. Not shame.

Disgust. At me.

"You got pregnant from a pity fuck?"

I take one small step back before I catch myself.

Pity. That's what that night was. I lay awake afterward and let myself imagine, for one hour, that something in him had remembered why he chose me.

"I thought maybe you wanted—"

"Wanted what?" He steps closer, filling the space until there's less of it. "Wanted you?"

The way he says it. Like the idea barely deserves the breath.

I stop moving backward. Plant my feet.

"You love Clarissa."

Quiet. Certain. Not an accusation. Just the thing I've known for three years and refused to say aloud.

He doesn't deny it. The silence is its own answer.

"She's carrying my child," he says finally. Flat, like weather.

"She's your sister."

"Half-sister." Immediate. Sharp. Like he's rehearsed that distinction. "Different parents. Completely different situation."

"She's twice the woman you'll ever be." His voice stays calm. Almost gentle, which makes it worse. "Born for the role you've been failing at for three years."

Each sentence lands exactly where he means it to.

"You pursued me," I say. "You proposed."

"I know what I did." No shame. No flinching. "I'm telling you it was a mistake."

My hand moves to my stomach. I don't decide to do it. My body just moves, certain in the way the rest of me isn't.

He watches the gesture and his expression gets harder.

"Get rid of it."

"What?"

"The baby." He sets his folded pajamas on the bed. Reasonable. Calm. Like he's suggesting I return a purchase. "Make an appointment with the pack doctor this week. He'll handle it quietly."

"You're talking about our child like it's a scheduling conflict."

"I'm talking about reality." He moves toward the bathroom. Done with this. Done with me.

"No."

The word comes out before I've fully decided to say it. But once it's out, I find I mean it completely.

He stops walking.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm keeping my baby." My hands are shaking. My voice isn't. "You don't get to make that decision."

He turns back slowly, studying me with something almost like curiosity. Like I'm an animal that's done something unexpected.

"You're refusing a direct order from your Alpha."

"I'm refusing an order from my husband that has nothing to do with pack business and everything to do with covering up an affair." The last word shakes but holds. "You have no authority over my body."

Something flickers in his eyes. One fraction of a second. Uncertainty, maybe even guilt. Then it closes off completely.

"You'll regret this." The quiet kind of threat. The kind that used to make me careful. "I can make things very difficult for you here."

"I already regret marrying you."

First time I've ever said it out loud.

His hand lifts. Short. Sharp.

I flinch.

My whole body pulling backward, arms coming up, muscle memory moving before my mind can catch up.

He sees it. Sees what it means. What three years have built in me without either of us naming it.

His hand drops.

Something moves across his face and disappears before I can read it.

"Fine." Flat. Emptied out. "Keep it. Don't expect me to claim it. Don't expect anything from me."

He walks to the door.

"You have one week to change your mind."

The door swings shut. And then, small and mechanical and final, the lock clicks into place from the outside.

He didn't just leave.

He locked me in.

I stand in the middle of our bedroom in the dress he chose for me, heart hammering, hand still pressed flat against my stomach.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

A notification. Pack-wide alert from Alpha Thornwell's office.

I cross the room and pick it up. Read the message once. Read it again.

*Effective immediately, all omega-rank members must submit to a mandatory bloodline review. Any omega unable to demonstrate pack contribution within thirty days will be subject to bond dissolution.*

Thirty days.

Thornwell didn't wait until morning. He drafted this tonight, at dinner, while I was counting flowers on his china.

He was already building the case to remove me before Damon even walked through our bedroom door.