The Bastard's Crown

Lyra (Content warning: domestic violence, pregnancy loss) The test is shaking in my hand. Two lines, pink and unmistakable. I've seen them twice before, and both times I cried: the first time from fear, the second from hope. This time I don't cry at all. I stand in the bathroom of Tristan's penthouse and stare at the little plastic stick as if it might change if I look long enough. It doesn't. Six weeks, maybe seven. I've kept this one to myself for three days. I've let my hand rest low on my stomach when no one is looking, and last night, with the shower running, I tried a name under my breath just to hear how it sounded. I wanted the timing to be right, a moment when Tristan wasn't stressed or distracted or already halfway out the door. But there's never a right moment with him. There's only the moment I decide to stop waiting. I tuck the test into my cardigan pocket. In the mirror: dark hair pinned back, face carefully blank. Five years with Tristan taught me how to smile while I'm breaking. The penthouse is quiet. Tristan likes it that way: no music, no television, nothing to distract him from himself. I find him in the study, by the window, phone to his ear, jacket already on. "—no, I don't care what it costs. Just handle it." He turns when I step into the doorway. His eyes flick over me, quick and dismissive. He doesn't say my name. He just holds up one finger. *Wait.* I wait. I always wait. He ends the call and sighs like the world is on his shoulders. "What is it? I'm running late." I should find a better moment. But I've been finding better moments for five years, and none has ever come. So I say it. "I'm pregnant." Tristan doesn't move. For a long second he looks at me as if I've spoken another language. "You're what?" "Six weeks. I found out three days ago." He crosses the room and stops close enough that I can smell the cologne I bought him for his birthday. "You're not keeping it." Not a question. An order. Something in me goes hard and very quiet. "I am keeping it." His jaw tightens. "Lyra. We've been through this. Twice. You know the timing is wrong." "You told me. Both times. You said it wasn't the right moment, and I believed you." My hands are shaking, so I press them flat against my thighs. "This one is different. I'm not ending this one." "Don't be stupid." His voice stays calm. That's how he does it; he never raises it until it's too late. "You think you can raise a child alone? With what? You are nothing without me." I've heard it before, in different versions on different nights. But this time I hear it for what it is. A threat. "I'll do it alone if I have to. I'm not asking for your permission. I'm telling you." His face changes. It's only a flicker, a tightening around the eyes, but I've spent five years learning those tiny shifts. I watch the moment he stops pretending. He hits me. Once, across the face, hard enough that my head snaps sideways and the room goes white. I fall, and my hip catches the edge of his desk. I don't scream. I learned long ago that screaming makes it worse. He doesn't stop. He kicks me, once, twice, and I curl around my stomach with my arms over my head, and this time the part I'm protecting isn't me. Through the ringing in my ears I catch pieces: *stupid, ungrateful, you think you can threaten me?* Then it stops. I lie on the marble and listen to his breathing, hard and fast, then slowing, then calm. I hear him straighten his tie. His shoes click toward the door. "Clean this up before I get back." The door closes. I don't know how long I lie there. The marble goes cold under my cheek, the ache in my side settles into something dull and steady, and then I feel the warmth, spreading. No. No, no, no. I push myself up and look down at the red on the white stone, and my body understands before my mind will let it. My phone is in the living room. I crawl. Every breath catches on my ribs like a hook. I should call an ambulance, but Tristan has a rule, and I've lived by it for five years: no strangers in this house, no questions. My thumb finds Elise's name before I've decided anything. She answers on the second ring. "Lyra? It's late, what—" "Elise." My voice comes out small and strange. "I need help." A sharp breath. "Where are you?" "Tristan's. I'm bleeding, I think—" I can't finish. "I'm coming. Don't move. Don't call anyone else." I lie on the living-room floor with the phone against my chest and a smear of blood trailing back toward the study, and a voice I haven't heard in years whispers: *This isn't love. This was never love.* It sounds like my mother. I count the minutes, because counting is all I can do. Twelve. Then the door, Elise's footsteps fast on the marble, her hands on my face, her eyes wide and furious and scared. "Lyra. Look at me. Can you stand?" My legs fold. She catches me, stronger than she looks, and half-carries me out to her car. The hospital comes in pieces: fluorescent light, cold hands, the sting of an IV, a doctor asking questions I can't answer. Then the words. "I'm sorry. There was nothing we could do." I keep looking at the ceiling, because it's easier than looking at anyone. For three days I carried this like something warm in my pocket. I'd started wondering whether it would have my eyes or his hands. I told him. If I had waited one more week, one more month, would it still be here? Elise's grip tightens around my fingers, and that's when it comes. It isn't a sob, just water running sideways into my ears, because I'm lying flat and can't even cry properly. She doesn't tell me it isn't my fault. She doesn't say anything at all, and I'm grateful she knows there is nothing to say. I think of two pink lines. I think of the name I tried in the shower. I think of the marble. Then I hear footsteps in the hallway. I know them. Slow. Unhurried. The walk of a man who has never once had to hurry for me. Tristan. He came. He actually came.