Five

Noami’s Pov

Morning sickness is a cruel, miserable little monster that doesn't care whether you are sleeping in a cheap apartment or a multi-million-dollar mansion.

I wake up before the sun is even fully up, running straight to the white marble bathroom in my guest suite, losing whatever little sleep I managed to grab.

When I finally drag myself out, wiping my mouth with a damp cloth, I feel completely drained. My body is changing, my emotions are running wild, and the heavy feeling of being trapped in this giant stone house is pressing down on my chest like a lead weight.

By nine o'clock, there is a gentle tap at my door. It is one of the security guards telling me that my private medical appointment has been arranged.

"I don't need a medical appointment," I tell the guard through the cracked door, crossing my arms over my oversized sweater. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Mr. Kingsley's orders, Miss Ellis," the guard replies flatly, his face as blank as a stone wall. "A specialist is waiting in the private examination room downstairs."

I let out a loud, frustrated groan, but I know arguing is useless. More than anything, I want to make sure the baby is healthy and growing safely, especially after all the stress of the last few days. So I give up, grab my bag, and stomp down the grand staircase.

Of course, waiting for me at the bottom is Roman. He is dressed in a dark charcoal suit, his broad shoulders filling the hallway, looking like he hasn't slept a wink. His dark eyes lock onto mine as I approach, his expression tense and guarded.

"Are you coming with me to watch me breathe, too?" I snap, my patience completely gone as I walk past him.

"Someone has to make sure you don't walk straight into traffic," Roman shoots back smoothly, falling right in step beside me as we head out toward the private medical wing built into the side of the mansion. Two security guards trail a few paces behind us like dark shadows.

When we step into the clinic room, Dr. Evelyn Hart is waiting for us. She is a woman in her late forties with sharp silver-streaked hair and kind eyes that look unusually nervous today. She checks my vital signs, listens to the faint, fast heartbeat of the baby on the monitor, and smiles softly.

"Everything looks completely normal, Naomi," Dr. Hart says, writing notes on her high-tech tablet. "The baby is strong and healthy."

I let out a long breath of relief, resting my hand gently over my stomach. "Thank you, Dr. Hart."

"However," the doctor adds, her voice dropping a little as she pauses and looks down at the digital files on her screen. She hesitates, biting her lower lip.

Roman instantly picks up on the shift in the room. He steps closer to the desk, his presence filling the small space with immediate authority. "What is it, Doctor? Is there a problem?"

"Well... it's not a medical problem with the pregnancy," Dr. Hart stammers, her fingers flying nervously across her tablet screen. "It's just that I was reviewing the original clinic transfer logs sent over by the Elite Agency. And there is a strange discrepancy in the genetic matching files for the embryo."

My heart skips a beat. I sit up straighter on the examination table, my eyes darting between the doctor and Roman. "What kind of discrepancy?"

"I need to run a secondary verification before I say anything definitive," Dr. Hart says quickly, looking genuinely frightened now. She stands up and practically hurries out of the room to pull physical backup files from the secure records room.

The exam room falls into a heavy, suffocating silence.

I look up at Roman. His jaw is clenched so hard a muscle twitches in his cheek. He isn't looking at me; he is staring at the closed door, his mind working a million miles an hour.

Later that evening, after we have returned to the main house and I am sitting rigidly on the edge of a velvet couch in the massive parlor, the heavy oak doors swing open. Roman walks in, holding a sealed manila folder. His face is completely pale, drained of all color, and his eyes look wild and unsettled.

"Roman?" I ask, my voice trembling as a cold shiver runs down my spine. "What is going on? What did the doctor find?"

Roman walks slowly across the marble floor and stops right in front of me. He doesn't sit down. He just looks down at me like I am a ghost.

"When Ethan hired the agency, he signed up as the intended father," Roman begins, his voice dangerously low and shaking slightly. "That is what the papers said. That is what we were all told. But something didn't sit right with me. Too many things about my brother's life—and his sudden death—were manipulated."

"Get to the point, Roman!" I cry out, my heart pounding so loudly I feel sick. "What does this have to do with me?"

Roman slowly opens the folder and pulls out a single sheet of paper, holding it out toward me. The bold black letters at the top stand out like a gunshot: *DNA PATERNITY VERIFICATION RESULTS.*

"I ordered a private, independent genetic test using the clinic's master sample," Roman says, his voice breaking on the words. "The results just came back from the lab an hour ago."

I take the paper with trembling fingers, my eyes scanning down to the conclusion at the bottom. The words blur together, but one clear, impossible sentence hits me right between the eyes:

“Biological Father: Roman Kingsley.”

The paper slips from my fingers, fluttering softly down onto the plush carpet. I stare up at Roman, my breath caught completely in my throat. My whole world tilts sideways.

"No," I whisper, shaking my head violently. "No, that's impossible. I've never even met you before this week! I signed up to carry Ethan's baby! Ethan was the client!"

"I know he was!" Roman yells, his voice cracking with raw, unadulterated shock as he runs both hands through his dark hair. He paces across the room, looking just as terrified and confused as I feel. "I never authorized the agency to use my genetic material! I didn't even know they had my DNA on file from our family trust's annual medical screenings!"

We sit there in the massive, silent room, staring at each other across an abyss of madness.

Ethan is dead. The baby is not his. The child growing inside my body belongs biologically to the terrifying, controlling billionaire standing right in front of me. And neither of us has the slightest idea how it happened.