Chapter 55: Pregnant?
Dora turned to the side and caught sight of Dante, who had been standing silently by the car, watching her. His expression was unreadable—no anger, no concern, no hint of emotion at all. It was almost as if he existed outside the chaos of what had just taken place.
"I’ll head to the hospital," Dora said immediately after settling into her seat. The words left her mouth before she even thought them through. Dante moved in without a word, closing the car door as he sat beside her.
"It’s the right thing to do," she added after a pause, her tone brittle and uncertain—as though she were trying to convince herself more than him.
Outside the window, the streets were illuminated by the glow of streetlights and the flash of headlights. The motorcade moved steadily, cars both in front and behind escorting them through the city. Dora’s reflection on the window looked pale, distant, exhausted. Her thoughts drifted, her body slumping slightly as the tension finally began to ease.
But her calm shattered when Dante responded.
"No."
His voice was firm—quiet but absolute. Dora’s head snapped to the side, startled by the suddenness of it, the chill in his tone. His face was still composed, as though carved from marble, eyes fixed on her with unnerving calm.
"What do you mean, no?" she asked, frowning, waiting for him to elaborate.
He didn’t make her wait. "I can follow you there, and you can stay for a while. But you’re not remaining overnight."
Dora blinked, stunned by the authority in his tone. "You’re not serious. My stepmother is dying," she said, disbelief rising in her voice.
Dante didn’t flinch. His gaze didn’t soften. "You need to get eight hours of sleep."
For a moment, she could only stare at him, her lips parted in astonishment. Eight hours of sleep? That was what he cared about right now?
Then, before she could respond, his next words froze her completely.
"...You could already be with child."
Her eyes widened. She turned sharply toward him, sure she’d misheard. But no—the calm in his eyes told her she hadn’t.
"If you are," he continued evenly, "the last thing we want is for the baby to be affected."
For once, Dora couldn’t find words. Her throat tightened as her mind scrambled to process what he’d just said. He had said it so easily, so casually, yet the meaning behind it made her chest constrict.
And the worst part was—he wasn’t wrong.
She could be pregnant. The possibility had hovered in her thoughts since that night, quiet but persistent.
"We can head there for a while," Dante went on, "but you’re not staying the night."
Dora turned her face away, her heart pounding as she weighed his words. It would look terrible if she left soon after arriving. But still, it would be worse to not go at all.
"Fine," she said finally, her tone subdued.
He nodded once, then turned to look out the window, the conversation seemingly over. Dora, however, continued to glance sideways at him, her expression unreadable, before she too looked away.
The rest of the ride passed in silence.
After a while, she found her hands resting on her lap, then slowly moving upward—coming to rest gently against her abdomen. The motion was unconscious, but once she noticed it, her face grew hot. Her heart beat faster, a flicker of fear and disbelief coursing through her.
What if I am?
She lowered her gaze, staring at her hands pressed lightly against her belly.
Would it look like me?
The thought startled her, made her stiffen instantly. No. She pushed it away as quickly as it came. That was dangerous. Stupid. She reminded herself sharply that this wasn’t her child. It was never meant to be. She was just the vessel. Nothing more.
By the time they arrived at the hospital, Dora had gone completely silent again. The sterile smell of antiseptic hit her immediately as they stepped out of the car and entered the brightly lit corridor.
Her father, Luca, was there—his face pale and drawn—as was Elisa, seated in her wheelchair with her usual guarded expression. Rossi, her stepbrother, had also arrived. The look he gave her was cold, sharp, almost disgusted, as though everything that had happened was somehow her fault.
Dora avoided his gaze. Elisa’s bodyguard stood behind her, expression neutral but attentive. No one spoke. The waiting room was thick with grief and tension, every sound—from the ticking clock to the shuffle of nurses’ shoes—echoing too loudly in the heavy silence.
For thirty long minutes, Dora sat quietly, her hands clasped together, her eyes occasionally darting to the glowing red "Operating" sign above the double doors. Her chest rose and fell slowly, evenly, though her heart felt as though it were trying to escape her ribs.
Then she felt it—Dante’s gaze on her.
It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t impatient either. Just steady, commanding.
A silent signal: It’s time to leave.
She ignored it at first, staring straight ahead. But when she felt it again, unwavering, she exhaled and knew she couldn’t refuse.
With a quiet sigh, she rose to her feet and turned to Elisa. "I’ll return tomorrow morning," she said softly.
Rossi didn’t acknowledge her. Luca glanced at her before glancing away. Dora wasn’t surprised.
But Elisa lifted her head. Her eyes were icy, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Of course you can’t stay," she said, voice cutting. "You’re better than the rest of us. Too good to stay and—"
Her words were abruptly cut off by Dante’s voice, calm but laced with cold steel.
"She could be with child," he said bluntly. "She’s not allowed to stay the night."
The words dropped into the air like a stone, heavy and impossible to ignore.
Elisa’s eyes widened, her face paling as she glanced between them. Even Rossi—stoic, perpetually indifferent—looked startled, his expression breaking for the first time.
Dora, too, froze in place. Her pulse skipped as the reality of what he’d said settled in. She hadn’t expected him to speak for her, let alone say that.
No one spoke after that. Elisa turned her face away, and Rossi dropped his gaze, his jaw tightening.
Dora murmured a quiet goodbye, though no one answered. She turned and walked out, her steps unsteady but her face composed. Dante followed closely behind, his presence a silent weight beside her.
Once outside, the night air felt colder than before. Dora’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, though she tried to keep her expression neutral. The moment they entered the car, she exhaled deeply, feeling the tension she’d held inside her chest slowly unwind.
The drive back to the estate was wordless. The city lights blurred past her window in streaks of gold and white until finally, they pulled into the long, gravelled driveway.
By the time they stepped inside, it was well past midnight.
Dora’s body felt heavy with exhaustion. She wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed and forget the day had ever happened. She took a step toward the stairs, still in the white dress she wore for the reception exhaling slowly.
Then she heard him behind her.
Dante’s footsteps were quiet, steady, until he stopped just a few paces away.
"Dora," he said—his voice low, deliberate, and carrying a tone that made her spine stiffen.
Something in the way he said her name sent a faint shiver down her back. She turned slowly, her heart thudding once, hard, against her ribs.
And when her eyes met his, she realized that whatever he was about to say next would not let her rest as easily as she’d hoped.
