I force myself up, dragging my body out of bed, moving toward the bathroom with sluggish, heavy limbs. The world tilts slightly as I reach the sink. My hands tremble as I splash cold water on my face, forcing my expression into something neutral, something he won’t question.
When I step out, Marco is standing by the door, watching me with sharp, assessing eyes.
"You look pale." His voice is gruff, laced with suspicion. "Are you still sick?"
I nod, forcing a weak smile. "The food poisoning was worse than I thought," I murmur. "I just need to rest."
His gaze narrows. He doesn’t believe me.
He moves closer, the space between us shrinking, pressing in. His fingers graze beneath my chin, tilting my face up with a touch too light to match the weight of him in the room.
"Sofia."
My name leaves his lips quieter now, edged with a quiet intensity that settles where it shouldn’t. It winds through me, tightening in my chest.
"You’d tell me if anything was wrong, wouldn’t you?"
My throat locks.
No.
But I nod anyway. "Of course."
He watches, waiting, measuring. The moment drags, stretching thin before he exhales through his nose.
"Fine. Rest."
The softness vanishes like it was never there. His voice turns clipped, removed. "I have business to take care of today."
Then, just as quickly, he’s gone.
I nod again, waiting for him to leave, waiting for the moment I can finally breathe.
The second the door clicks shut behind him, I press my hands to my face, inhaling deeply.
I have to go.
I know it now, with a certainty that settles in my bones like a slow-moving storm, creeping in at the edges, impossible to ignore. Staying here isn’t just reckless—it’s a death sentence. Not for me.
For my child.
Because this world does not forgive softness. It does not protect the fragile or spare the innocent. It waits in the quiet spaces, in the shadows of power, in the mouths of men who speak in low, measured tones, their words edged with unspoken threats. A child—his child—would not be a blessing. It would be a weapon. A vulnerability. A countdown to disaster.
I can already feel it, the shift that would come, the careful glances, the murmured speculations, the weight of unseen eyes tracking my every move. The way doors would close just a second too late, the way conversations would pause when I entered the room. A threat wouldn’t come loud, not at first. It would come in silence. In the space between words. In the creeping inevitability of what I already know to be true.
If I stay, I will lose this child—whether to a bullet, a blade, or the slow, insidious pull of a world that never lets go.
So, I start planning.
I spend the day withdrawing into myself, letting the distance settle between Marco and me like a growing chasm. He notices. Of course he does.
By evening, the tension is thick, crackling between us like a live wire.
"Are you going to tell me what the fuck is wrong with you?" His voice is sharp, cutting through the heavy silence of our bedroom.
I don’t answer.
His jaw clenches. "I won’t play this game, Sofia."
