Chapter 9: The Negotiation
1523 Words
The nausea hit in waves.
Isabella had spent the morning in bed, curtains drawn against the weak October sunlight, a cold compress pressed to her forehead. The pregnancy—something she had been quietly denying for weeks—was now making itself known in the most aggressive way possible.
She had thrown up three times since dawn.
The bathroom floor was icy against her knees. She stayed there long after, forehead pressed to the tiles, breathing in shallow, ragged gasps.
This is real, she thought. There’s a baby inside me. His baby.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Alexander’s. She had learned to recognize the rhythm of his stride, the deliberate weight of his step. He paused outside the door.
“Isabella?”
She didn’t answer.
The door opened. He stood there, still in his suit, tie loosened, phone in hand—back early, for reasons she didn’t question.
“You’re sick.”
“I’m pregnant,” she said, voice muffled by the cold tiles. “There’s a difference.”
He crossed the bathroom in two strides and knelt beside her. His hand hovered, hesitant, then finally settled against her back—warm, steady, grounding.
“What do you need?”
“A new body.”
“I can’t arrange that.”
“Then nothing.”
He didn’t leave. He stayed there, kneeling on the cold marble, his fingers moving in slow circles along her shoulder blades. She should have told him to go. She didn’t.
“The doctor can prescribe something,” he said softly. “For the nausea.”
“I don’t have a doctor.”
“You do now. I’ll make an appointment.”
She lifted her head, eyes meeting his. “You can’t just throw money at this.”
“Watch me.”
Despite herself, a faint smile threatened.
The doctor arrived that afternoon. Not for an appointment—a visit. A woman in her fifties, gray-haired and kind-faced, carrying a black bag and an air of no-nonsense competence. She examined Isabella in her bedroom, asked about dates and symptoms, and prescribed something for the nausea.
“You’re about ten weeks along,” the doctor said, packing up her bag. “Everything seems normal. I’d like to see you in my office next week for an ultrasound.”
“I’ll bring her,” Alexander said from the doorway.
The doctor nodded, glancing between them, and left.
Isabella sat on the edge of the bed, prescription in hand. Ten weeks. That meant the night at the hotel—the night he had taken her without consent.
She should hate him.
She didn’t know what she felt anymore.
That evening, he found her in the library, staring at a shelf of books she had read countless times before.
“The prescription is at the pharmacy,” he said. “I’ll have it picked up.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me for basic care.”
“I’m thanking you for not treating me like an incubator.”
He walked to the window, eyes on the city below. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Wouldn’t you?” She turned to face him, blunt, fearless. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? You need an heir. I’m convenient.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s not—”
“Then what is it?”
He was silent for a long moment. “I don’t know what this is. I’ve never done this before.”
“What? Gotten someone pregnant?”
“Cared whether they stayed.”
The words hit her like stones dropped into still water. She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.
The call came during dinner.
Alexander’s phone buzzed on the table. Vivian. He declined once. Twice. The third time, he answered.
“This isn’t a good time,” his voice clipped. “…No, I’m not alone. …I don’t care what my mother said. …Vivian, I’m hanging up now.”
He ended the call and set the phone face-down.
“Problems?” Isabella asked.
“Vivian’s father is pressuring my mother. He wants a business partnership. He thinks I owe him because—” He stopped.
“Because what?”
“Because I ended things with Vivian years ago. He thinks I ruined her reputation.”
“Did you?”
“She was never my girlfriend.” He picked up his fork, set it down again. “We grew up together. Our mothers were friends. Everyone assumed we would marry. But I never…” He met her gaze. “…I never wanted her.”
“Then why did she wait?”
“Because she believed I would change. That, given enough time, I would see what was in front of me.” He laughed, bitter. “I didn’t. I couldn’t.”
“Because of Arianna.”
“Because of Arianna.” His eyes fell to the table, untouched food before him. “Vivian was everything I should have wanted. Beautiful. Accomplished. Appropriate.” He spat the last word like a curse. “But she wasn’t her.”
Isabella set down her fork. “You’re still in love with a ghost.”
“I’m trying not to be.”
“And me?” Her voice was soft, almost afraid. “Am I helping?”
He looked at her—really looked, the way he had in the museum. “I don’t know yet.”
It wasn’t the answer she wanted. But it was the truth.
After dinner, she retreated to her room, shutting the door behind her.
She stood at the window, watching the lights of Manhattan flicker, thinking over the last ten weeks—the hotel, the gala, the engagement, the secret room, the museum.
Alexander Blackwood was carved from grief and guilt. He didn’t love her—not fully. Maybe he couldn’t. But he was trying. And that was more than anyone else in her life had ever done.
Her hand went to her stomach.
Ten weeks. Twenty-eight more to go. Give or take.
A lot could change in twenty-eight weeks. She just had to survive them.
A knock at the door. Light. Hesitant.
“Come in.”
Alexander appeared, stopping short of crossing the threshold. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
“Maybe.” She turned back to the city. “But it’s a polite lie.”
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “My mother wants to throw an engagement party.”
“Of course she does.”
“Next Saturday. At the estate.”
“And if I refuse?”
“She’ll throw it anyway. With or without you.”
Isabella exhaled. “Then I suppose I’ll be there.”
“You don’t have to pretend to be happy.”
“I don’t have to pretend anything. I’ll wear a pretty dress, smile for the cameras, and let your mother show me off like a prize pig.”
Something flickered across his face—guilt, regret. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For all of it. The engagement. The party. The way you’re treated.”
“You didn’t cause your mother to be difficult.”
“I didn’t stop her either.”
Isabella stepped closer, stopping just a few feet away. “Then stop her. Tell her to cancel the party.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s right. We need to be seen together. The press needs to see us as a united front. If we don’t control the narrative, someone else will.”
“Vivian.”
“Vivian.” His eyes locked on hers. “Her father is already talking to reporters. If we don’t give them something else to write about, they’ll write their own story.”
Isabella thought of the headlines she had already seen—Blackwood Heir to Marry? Mystery Woman at Gala—and the comments beneath. Curious, cruel, hungry.
“Fine,” she said. “One party. But I’m not pretending to be in love with you.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“Good.”
They stood inches apart, neither moving.
“Isabella,” he said quietly, “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”
“You don’t know what I wanted.”
“Then tell me.”
She looked at him—the man who had taken her future and reshaped it, who had built a shrine to her dead sister.
“I wanted to matter to someone,” she said. “To be more than an obligation. More than a convenient solution to someone else’s problem.”
“You are.”
“Am I?” She held his gaze. “Prove it.”
“How?”
“Figure it out.”
She walked past him into the hallway, leaving him in the doorway.
That night, she didn’t dream.
She lay awake, hand on her stomach, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere in the penthouse, footsteps paced—back and forth, like a caged animal.
Alexander couldn’t sleep either.
For the first time, they shared something in common.
- Writer
