Chapter 6: The Poisoned Apple

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The sun over the city was too bright. It felt like a physical intrusion, stabbing through the sheer curtains of the master suite and searing Iza’s retinas. She rolled over, reaching for a glass of water that wasn't there, and felt the world tilt.

It wasn't just a dizzy spell. It was a violent, subterranean heave of her stomach that made her breath hitch in her throat.

Iza bolted upright, her hand flying to her mouth. She barely made it to the en-suite bathroom before the contents of her stomach—which wasn't much more than tea and bile—came back up. She collapsed onto the cool marble floor, the silence of the penthouse amplified by the ringing in her ears.

It’s just stress, she told herself, her fingers gripping the edge of the porcelain vanity. It’s the lack of sleep. It’s the constant, grinding tension of living with a man who looks at me like a hungry wolf.

But deep down, in the part of her brain that she tried to keep locked away from Dark Thorne, a cold realization was beginning to take root. She was a law student; she was a woman of logic and evidence. And the evidence was starting to pile up.

"Izaib."

She jumped, her heart hammering against her ribs. Dark was standing in the doorway. He was fully dressed in a tailored navy suit, looking as sharp and dangerous as a razor blade. He was holding a leather briefcase, but his eyes weren't on his work.

They were pinned to her pale, sweating face.

"You’re late for breakfast," he said. It wasn't a question. It was an observation of a broken rule.

"I... I just have a stomach bug," she whispered, pulling herself up to a sitting position. "The fish from last night must have been off."

Dark walked into the bathroom, his presence immediately making the large room feel small. He knelt beside her, his movements fluid and predatory. He didn't reach out to comfort her; he reached out to examine her. He placed a hand on her forehead, his skin cool and dry against her feverish heat.

"The fish was caught yesterday morning and flown in on my private jet, Iza. It wasn't 'off,'" he said, his voice dropping to that low, dangerous register.

He gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

His grey eyes were like storm clouds, searching her face for a lie. He stayed like that for a long time, his thumb tracing the dark circles under her eyes.

"You’re pale. Your pulse is erratic," he noted, his voice devoid of emotion. "If you’re trying to use a 'sickness' to avoid your obligations tonight, you should know that I’m a very patient man. I’ll simply wait until the fever breaks."

"I'm not lying," she snapped, a flicker of her old fire returning. "I’m sick, Dark. Even your 'property' is allowed to have a virus."

Dark’s grip on her chin tightened just a fraction. "I don't like viruses. They’re messy. They’re unpredictable. And they’re a waste of my time."

He stood up, looking down at her as if she were a puzzle he hadn't quite solved yet. "I’ve called Dr.

Vance. He’ll be here at noon to run a full panel. I want to know exactly what’s 'wrong' with you."

Iza felt a cold wave of panic wash over her. A doctor. A blood test. The truth would be out before the sun set.

"No," she said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "I don't need a doctor. I just need some ginger ale and a nap. Please, Dark. Don't make a scene out of a stomach ache."

Dark narrowed his eyes. "You’re afraid of a doctor, Iza? Or are you afraid of what he’ll find?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Iza held her breath, her mind racing for an excuse, a diversion, anything to keep him from looking too closely at the timeline of the last few weeks.

"I hate needles," she lied, her voice trembling.

"Always have. It’s a phobia."

Dark stared at her for another long moment. Then, slowly, he let out a breath. "Fine. No doctor. For today. But if you aren't at that table by dinner, I won't ask for your permission. I’ll carry you to the clinic myself."

He turned on his heel and walked out, his footsteps echoing like a countdown.

Iza stayed on the bathroom floor for a long time after he left. She felt like a prisoner who had just seen the bars of her cage turn into a glass wall. She was visible, but she was still trapped.

She spent the day in a daze. She tried to read the legal books he had given her, but the words blurred on the page. She found herself wandering to the kitchen, opening the fridge only to be hit by the smell of the truffles he loved, and having to run back to the bathroom.

She was pregnant. She knew it. The math was simple, the symptoms were textbook, and the man responsible was currently in a boardroom deciding the fate of thousands of lives.

What would he do when he found out?

Dark Thorne didn't "do" family. He didn't "do" love. He had a father he hated and a mother who was a ghost. A child would be a liability. A weakness. Or worse—it would be a permanent link between them, a debt that could never be settled in six months.

Iza looked out at the city, the skyscrapers glittering like diamonds in the sun. She thought about her father. The five million dollars. The contractt.

If I tell him, I lose my leverage, she realized. He won't let me go after six months if I'm carrying his heir. He’ll lock me in this tower forever. I’ll be the mother of a Thorne, and I’ll never see the sun again without an escort.

She had to hide it. She had to hide it long enough to finish the contract, get her father to safety, and disappear.

By 7:00 PM, Iza was standing in front of the mirror again. She looked like a ghost. Her skin was sallow, her eyes sunken. She used the expensive makeup Dark had bought her, caking on the foundation and the blush until she looked like a porcelain doll with a fake, rosy glow.

She put on a loose-fitting dress—a deep emerald green that Dark hadn't seen yet. It draped over her stomach, hiding the slight, almost invisible bloat that only she could feel.

When the elevator chimed at 8:00 PM, she was ready. She was standing in the lounge, a glass of ginger ale in her hand that she hoped looked like a cocktail.

Dark walked in, his eyes immediately finding her. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her face.

"You look better," he said, though there was a note of suspicion in his voice.

"I told you. It was just a bug," she said, offering a tight, practiced smile.

"Good." He walked to her, his hand sliding around her waist. He pulled her flush against him, and Iza had to fight the urge to gag as the scent of his cologne—spicy, masculine, and overwhelming—hit her.

"I have a surprise for you, Iza," he whispered, his lips grazing her ear.

"A surprise?"

"Your father," Dark said. "He’s been asking to see you. I’ve arranged for a video call. Ten minutes. If you behave."

The relief that washed over Iza was so intense she almost fainted. Her father. He was okay. He was safe.

"Thank you, Dark," she whispered, her voice genuine for the first time in days.

"Don't thank me yet," Dark said, his grip on her waist tightening. "Gratitude in this house is earned. And tonight, I intend to collect."

He led her to his office, the one place she was usually forbidden to enter unless invited. He sat her down in his large leather chair and opened his laptop. A few seconds later, a graining image appeared on the screen.

"Iza? Iza, is that you?"

Her father looked older, more tired, but he was in a clean room. He had food on the table. He looked... protected.

"Dad! I'm here. I'm okay," Iza cried, her hand reaching out to touch the screen.

"They’re taking good care of me, honey. Mr.

Thorne’s people... they’re very professional. Are you... are you okay? Is he treating you well?"

Iza felt Dark’s hand on her shoulder, his fingers digging into the emerald silk. She looked up at him, and he gave her a slow, warning nod.

"I'm fine, Dad. I'm just... studying. Mr. Thorne is being very generous."

The call lasted only ten minutes, just as he had promised. When the screen went black, Iza felt a hole in her chest.

"He looks good," she said, her voice small.

"He’s alive," Dark corrected. "Which is more than he deserves."

He turned her chair around, forcing her to face him. He knelt between her legs, his hands resting on her thighs.

"Now," he murmured, his eyes darkening. "About my payment."

Iza felt the nausea returning, a cold, sharp spike in her gut. She looked at Dark—the man who held her father’s life in one hand and her freedom in the other. She knew she had to go through with it. She had to keep up the charade.

But as he leaned in to kiss her, a sudden, sharp dizziness hit her again. The room spun, the lights blurred, and for the first time in her life, Iza Moreno let the darkness win.

She fainted straight into Dark Thorne’s arms.

And as he caught her, his hand accidentally brushing against her lower abdomen, Dark Thorne felt something he hadn't felt in years.

Suspicion.