Damian’s POV
The paper was still in his jacket's pocket.
Damian stood in the study, the heavy curtains drawn, the only light in the room was the amber glow from the desk lamp. He had read the words three times now, and each time they refused to sound like the lie he wanted them to be.
Pregnancy confirmed. Seven to eight weeks. Clinical letterhead. Official seal.
The fury grew in his chest like a living thing. Vanessa had walked into his home, into his world, holding this paper like a weapon, and worst of all, she had left it behind.
A reminder. A challenge. A weapon.
Damian slammed the report down on the desk, the wood shaking beneath the blow. His reflection in the glass cabinet across the room glared back at him—gray eyes sharp with rage, jaw clenched until it ached.
“Son of a—”
