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“That’s it,” Marco encourages as my breathing hitches, my inner walls beginning to flutter around his fingers. “Let go for me, Aria. Show me how much you hate me.”

“You can fight me in the streets, but here?” He strokes deeper. “You still surrender.”

When I think my legs might give out entirely, his other hand tangles in my hair, tugging just hard enough to send a shock of pleasure-pain down my spine. The mixture of sensations—his fingers inside me, his thumb on my clit, his grip in my hair—pushes me toward the edge.

“I still hate you,” I whisper, my voice breaking as the pressure builds to unbearable heights.

“I know,” he says, and there’s something like tenderness in his voice that hurts more than cruelty would. “Come for me anyway.”

The words nearly undo me, and I climb higher, closer to the edge of explosion.

“Why did you run from me, Aria? Was it really about the crown—or were you just terrified of how much you needed me?”

Marco whispers against my ear, thrusting deeper, his voice a breath against my skin, his mouth tracing fire along my jaw.

“Stay, and I’ll make you feel like a queen. My queen.”

He curls his fingers one last time, presses down on my clit, and I shatter. My orgasm rips through me with violent intensity, my body clenching rhythmically around his fingers as waves of pleasure crash over me. Only his body pressed against mine and his hand in my hair keep me upright as I tremble through the aftershocks.

Marco groans against my skin, satisfied. “There she is.”

I exhale sharply, my body still trembling.

“You think that changes anything?” I straighten my dress with trembling hands, fury burning through the lingering pleasure. “You think making me come means I’ll just forgive everything and crawl back to you?”

His smile fades, replaced by something harder, more intense. “I think it reminds us both of what’s real, Aria. Not these games you’re playing. What’s real is what’s between us.”

“What’s between us is over.” I lean in and whisper in his ear, “I ran because I would never let my child be raised by a monster.”

30

MARCO

One word. One truth. The word “child” explodes in my mind like a bullet to the brain, shattering all other thoughts.

Time crawls to a near standstill.

The objects around me catch the light in suspended animation. Suddenly I can’t feel my fingers or toes, only the rapid hammering of my heart against my ribs.

“You’re pregnant,” I whisper, looking right at her. Her eyes—those hazel depths I’ve drowned in countless times—watch me with a mixture of defiance and vulnerability.

The silence drags, loud with everything we’re pretending not to feel. For just a second, the mask slips. I’m not the ruthless heir or the man she hates. I’m just the one who used to touch her like she was made of glass. Who used to say her name like it was the only thing that mattered.

A child. My child. Our child. The knowledge burns through me, melting everything else away until only this truth remains. My gaze drops to her stomach, then back up.

Around us, the gala continues in slow motion. I try to form words, but my tongue feels weighted with lead.

A father.

I’m going to be a father.

In my mind, I see a hand—small, impossibly small—curling around my finger with instinctive trust. A heartbeat I’ve never met but already feel tethered to. A life shaped from both of us, breathing somewhere just beyond my reach.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice comes out low, tight—the kind of quiet that brews just before everything breaks.

She let it slip—not as a celebration, not even intentionally. A weapon she hurled to make a point.

My hands move before I can think, reaching for her belly.