"Roman, no—" I caught his wrist, panic flaring. This was what I wanted, but I needed to play the part of someone who didn’t want medical attention. "It’s just the flu. I’ll be fine."
"Like hell." His thumb swept across my cheekbone, and I had to fight not to lean into the touch. "You’re burning up."
I wasn’t, actually, but I didn’t correct him.
"Dr. Grant," Roman said into his phone, his voice brooking no argument. "I need you at the estate. Now. My—" He paused, his eyes finding mine. "My fiancée is sick."
The word sent an unexpected flutter through my chest, but I pushed it down. Focus, Cassie. This was about survival, not romance.
Thirty minutes later, Dr. Grant arrived—a man in his sixties with kind eyes and the sort of calm demeanor that probably came from years of dealing with Roman’s world without asking inconvenient questions. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who’d seen everything and judged nothing.
"Mr. Creed," he said, shaking Roman’s hand. "Miss James. I understand you’re not feeling well."
"Just the flu," I said weakly, playing up the tremor in my voice.
Roman’s hand found the small of my back, a claiming touch that sent electricity up my spine despite everything. "She’s been like this since yesterday. Nauseous, exhausted, feverish."
Dr. Grant nodded, setting his medical bag on the counter. "Let’s take a look, shall we? Mr. Creed, perhaps you could give us some privacy while I examine Miss James?"
I felt Roman tense beside me. "I’m not leaving her."
The possessiveness in his voice made my stomach flutter for reasons that had nothing to do with pregnancy. But I needed him gone for this conversation.
"Roman," I said softly, catching his hand. "Please. I’m embarrassed enough as it is."
Something flickered across his features—frustration, maybe, or the recognition that his presence might make me uncomfortable. After a moment, he nodded.
"I’ll be in my office," he said, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. "Call if you need anything."
The moment the door closed behind him, I felt my carefully constructed composure crack.
Dr. Grant studied me with those keen eyes, and I had the distinct impression that very little escaped his notice.
"The flu," he said mildly, pulling on latex gloves. "Is that what we’re calling it?"
I opened my mouth to maintain the charade, but something in his expression—gentle, understanding, completely without judgment—made the words die in my throat.
"I need this to stay between us," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Completely confidential. Please."
He nodded slowly. "Doctor-patient privilege is sacred to me, Miss James. Whatever you tell me, whatever I find, stays in this room unless you explicitly tell me otherwise."
The relief was so overwhelming that I nearly started crying. For the first time since I’d realized what was happening to my body, I wasn’t completely alone with this secret.
"I think I’m pregnant," I said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I haven’t had a period in weeks, I’m nauseous all the time, and I’m exhausted. But I can’t—Roman can’t know. Not yet. Not until I figure out what this means."
Dr. Grant’s expression didn’t change, but his voice gentled even further. "How long have you been experiencing symptoms?"
"Two weeks, maybe three. But the nausea started getting really bad a few days ago."
He nodded, pulling out a stethoscope. "Let’s start with the basics. Blood pressure, temperature, and a quick physical exam. Then we’ll do a pregnancy test to confirm."
The next half an hour passed in a blur of medical routine that felt surprisingly normal despite the extraordinary circumstances. Dr. Grant worked with quiet efficiency, asking gentle questions about my symptoms, my medical history, and my concerns.
When he finally set down his stethoscope and looked at me with those kind eyes, I already knew what he was going to say.
"Congratulations, Miss James. You’re pregnant. Based on your symptoms and the timeline you’ve given me, I’d estimate you’re about four to five weeks along."
The words hit me like a physical blow, even though I’d been expecting them. Four to five weeks. That would put conception right around the time Roman and I had first been together in his office.
