Chapter 2: Possession

“Where am I?”

Lyra’s voice cracked, cutting through the rhythmic, sterile beeping of the monitors surrounding her hospital bed.

Everything was wrapped in a thick, dizzying haze. Her instincts kicked in and she tried to sit up, but the IV line anchored to the back of her hand pulled taut, sending a sharp, stinging pain up her arm.

“Not so fast, Miss,” a young nurse said gently, guiding her back down. “You’re still recovering.”

“What happened? Why am I here?” Lyra asked, even though the last clear memory she had was walking in on her husband with another woman and hearing him demand a divorce.

The nurse gave her a bright, almost excited smile. “You fainted… but it was for a good reason.”

“What do you mean?” Lyra asked, her breath catching as she tried to make sense of why collapsing could possibly be a good thing.

The nurse handed over a folded medical printout. “Congratulations. You’re three weeks pregnant.”

“What?”

Lyra snatched the paper from the nurse's hand, her eyes darting frantically across the commentary. Two years ago, when she and Tristan had desperately wanted a family, specialist after specialist had told them it would take a literal miracle. So what has changed?

“Are you… serious?” Her voice broke, the words barely audible. “Is this real?”

“Yes, ma’am. It is.”

Something inside Lyra collapsed. Tears spilled over before she could stop them. The image of Tristan buried inside another woman on their bed slammed back into her mind like a nightmare she couldn’t wake from.

(I was carrying his child, breaking my back working for his company, and that bastard had the nerve to cheat on me and ask for a divorce. As if my life wasn’t miserable enough.)

A wave of bitter, suffocating rage overtook her. Without another word, Lyra ripped the hospital blanket off her legs, grabbed the IV line, and yanked it straight out of her skin. A thin spray of blood dotted the floor.

“Miss, what are you doing?!” the nurse cried out in panic, rushing forward to hold her down. But Lyra’s adrenaline was a roaring fire; nothing was going to stop her.

“I’m going to see the man who wrecked my life for six years and is still trying to finish the job,” Lyra snapped, shoving the nurse back. “Let me go!”

“I can’t let you leave like this—”

But Lyra was already moving down the hallway, every step fueled by rage and heartbreak.

Her vision was blurred with angry tears. Tristan was supposed to be the first person she told. They had spent years grieving over empty cribs, ready to adopt just to feel that kind of love—and now, the miracle was finally here, but the father was sharing a bed with a fucking stranger.

Blinded by her fury, she marched down the hospital corridor, her tunnel vision causing her to misjudge her footing entirely.

She collided hard with a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a sharp black suit who was moving just as fast. Her legs buckled, and as she tipped backward toward the floor, strong hands caught her around the waist.

For a breathless second, the world stopped spinning. They stood frozen, inches apart, locked in a gaze so intense it felt entirely unreal. For a fleeting moment, Lyra wondered if she had hallucinated one of the Greek gods from the romance series she watched. But this was real—a strikingly handsome, godlike stranger was holding her, and her lungs completely forgot how to work. Who is he?

“Lyra.”

A harsh, familiar voice shattered the electric silence of the hallway.

Tristan.

The spell broke instantly. The stranger set her carefully upright on her feet, smoothing down the lapel of his suit where Lyra’s fingers had instinctively clutched during the fall.

“You should watch where you're going,” the man said smoothly, his expression completely unreadable. Without another glance, he walked past them with absolute, gentlemanly composure, paying zero attention to Tristan, who was already vibrating with ugly suspicion.

Lyra stood frozen, still feeling the imprint of those hands on her waist, until Tristan’s presence burned through the haze. When she turned to face him, all the anger flooded back.

Tristan’s face was a toxic cocktail of rage, jealousy, and possessive shock. He looked sick at the sight of the stranger looking at her. Without a word of warning, he lunged forward, his heavy hand clamping around her bicep.

“You’re hurting me, let go!” Lyra hissed, trying to wrench her arm away.

“Shut up,” Tristan fumed, dragging her unceremoniously toward the exit and out into the parking lot.

—

Tristan kicked the front door of their apartment open so hard it slammed into the drywall, shoving Lyra violently into the entryway.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Tristan?!” Lyra screamed, stumbling to keep her balance as she glared at him.

“You had me fooled with those fake tears when I brought up the divorce!” Tristan roared, closing the distance between them like a caged animal. “But you wanted it all along, didn't you? Is this what you've been doing on all those business trips? Letting other men look at you like that?”

“You are completely, out-of-your-mind and insane!” Lyra shouted, tears streaming freely now. “You asked for the divorce! You’re the one who cheated!”

“You—”

“You slept with another woman in our bed and served me divorce papers!” she cut him off, voice shaking with rage. “You don’t get to stand on any moral high ground. At least someone else still finds me worth looking at.”

That final, reckless taunt snapped the absolute last thread of Tristan’s self-control.

In a violent, coordinated rush, he lunged across the space between them, slamming his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't sweet or tender. It was teeth, tongue, and desperate, suffocating rage. He grabbed her by the waist hard enough to cause bruises, lifting her slightly and pinning her back hard against the hallway wall.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Lyra gasped, breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second, though her traitorous body already hummed with a helpless, involuntary reaction to his touch.

“Giving you what you want,” he snarled.

He crashed his mouth back onto hers, harder, hands already shoving her skirt up her thighs. A helpless sound escaped her throat as his fingers found bare skin.

(My baby…)

The thought cut through the chaos.

Amidst the dizzying heat of his hands roaming her body, a cold wave of panic crashed over her. 

How on earth was she supposed to break this news to the man currently devouring her?