Page 42 of All’s Fair In Love & War (The Bulgari Cartel #2)

She opened her eyes slowly and glanced over at me. There was a flicker of something there, fatigue, maybe even guilt, but she didn’t speak on it. She just rested her hand on her stomach again, like she forgot she was doing it.

And that was the moment it clicked—really clicked.

I didn’t say anything else. I just leaned back, nodded, and kept watching.

She wasn’t ready to admit what was going on.

But I already knew.

I let it drop for the rest of the day, figuring the last thing she wanted was for me to treat her like a patient.

We visited the Louis Vuitton flagship, and she purchased a limited-edition Neverfull that had the in-house stylists practically fan themselves.

We ate macarons at Ladurée, sitting outside on the curb like we were broke-ass tourists, even though the car service waited less than ten feet away.

Tatum could command a room with a single look, could cuss out a cartel lieutenant and make him apologize, but she’d still rather sit cross-legged on the sidewalk, licking powdered sugar off her fingers and watching randoms stumble by stoned on sunlight and espresso.

Around dusk, I took her to a spot she’d once mentioned wanting to see.

It was an old bookshop on the Seine, stacked so tight it looked ready to collapse under the weight of a hundred years of pages.

I’d called ahead to reserve the whole place and hired a translator so we wouldn’t waste time fumbling with shitty Google translations.

Tatum drifted around the labyrinthine stacks, running her fingers along crumbling spines and reading the French titles out loud in a low, syrupy voice.

She paused once to pull some ancient, battered noir off the shelf, opened it to a random chapter, and read a couple of lines to me in her best French accent.

I told her it was criminally sexy, and she rolled her eyes but didn’t put the book down, so I bought it for her.

After the bookshop, I figured it was time to eat.

She hadn’t said much about food, but I knew better than to wait until she crashed to do something about it.

Our driver took us to a restaurant I’d reserved days before.

The restaurant was a candlelit high-rise, designed to draw attention away from the steep prices with its stunning view.

As soon as we exited the elevator, I anticipated her eye roll, and she didn't disappoint.

“You know I would’ve been fine with a bistro and a glass of wine,” she said as the ma?tre d’ led us to a private table near the window.

“You passed on wine all day,” I reminded her, pulling her chair out. “Figured I’d make up for it with the view.”

The Eiffel Tower sparkled in the distance, and Paris moved below us like a slow heartbeat, soft, steady, unaware of the quiet war still sitting in the space between us.

Tatum adjusted her napkin, scanned the menu without much interest, and kept her hands in her lap like she was trying to keep them still.

I leaned forward, setting the wine list aside. “What are you in the mood for?” I asked, keeping my voice low so only she could hear it. “Seafood? Pasta? I can order for both of us if you’re not sure.”

Tatum didn’t answer right away. Instead, she glanced down at the menu like the words were swimming and nothing was sticking. Her fingers curled around the edge, knuckles as pale as her face. Before she could respond, a waiter glided past our table carrying two trays.

The first held a rare steak, the meat still red and bleeding at the center. The second was covered in something drowning in garlic, maybe escargot or lamb. I didn’t know, but the scent hit hard and fast.

Tatum froze in place, her eyes locked in an unblinking stare. Color drained from her face, leaving it pale, while her throat moved up and down as if she were struggling to force something down.

“Tatum,” I said quietly, reaching for her hand, but she pushed her chair back so fast it scraped the floor.

Her napkin slipped from her lap as she slapped a palm over her mouth and stood, her chair rocking slightly behind her. Without a word, she turned and hurried off, making her way toward the restrooms.

The waiter paused mid-stride, glancing between me and the tray in his hands. I gave him a small shake of my head, and he moved on.

I watched the bathroom door swing shut behind her, and my jaw set so hard my molars ached. The truth was, I'd known Tatum was pregnant for days. Weeks, maybe, but seeing her face at that last second made it impossible to ignore the signs any longer.

She was pregnant. My wife—the Don, the bedrock of our family, was carrying a secret inside her, and it was mine. Correction: she was carrying two secrets, because the fact that she hadn’t told me was its own special betrayal.

Anger started up in my gut and rippled outward, cold and mean. I didn't mind becoming a father. What pissed me off was that she thought she could hide anything from me. It was disrespectful as hell. We were supposed to be partners. If she didn’t trust me with this, what else was she holding back?

I sat there, turning the stem of my glass in slow circles, thinking about the script I’d rehearsed for weeks.

I’d planned this whole trip so we could talk through the Felicity situation.

The arranged marriage was her brother’s dumbass power play, but it was part of our peace treaty that had to happen, and soon.

I had planned to lay it out with receipts and context. Let her yell, cry, and break a glass over my head if she needed to get the steam off. However, none of that mattered now. If Tatum’s pregnant, I was playing chess while she was writing a whole new game. This shit couldn’t be real.

Tatum stayed gone for almost ten minutes. When she came out, she walked straight past our table to the window, putting her back to me. She didn’t say anything, just stood there, hands braced on the sill, breathing slow and deep.

“I don’t feel good. It’s time to go. I need to lie down.”

She didn’t wait for my answer. Just turned on her heels, walked right past me, and headed for the lifts.

I tossed my napkin onto the table and followed, anger throttling down out of sheer confusion.

Outside, Paris was blue-black and beaming, the night heavy with car horns and laughter and the clink of sidewalk café glasses.

Tatum tore ahead of me, her long legs eating the distance, her face composed again.

She was pulling her mask back on, piece by piece.

The car service was parked at the curb, ready for us. Tatum swiftly opened the door herself and settled into the back seat, pressing close to the window. After I climbed in next to her, the driver took off.

The hotel was only ten minutes from the restaurant, but the car ride felt longer. Tatum didn’t say shit to me, and I damn sure didn’t say anything to her. She rested her head against the window, eyes closed, and stayed like that until we arrived at our destination.

When we arrived, the elevator to our room was private, and the suite waited at the top of the tower. It was quiet, expansive, draped in low, golden lighting and blackout curtains that muffled the city beyond the windows.

Tatum walked in first, slipping her heels off by the door and heading straight for the bedroom. “I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed.”

“Nah. Hold the fuck up,” I said, grabbing her arm before she made it out of the living room.

She paused, back turned, breathing heavily as I reached into the shopping bag I’d snatched off the bar and pulled out a few tests.

“You’re not going in there until you pee on these sticks.”

Tatum turned slowly, her eyes narrowing the second she saw what I was holding.

“Naeem, please leave me the hell alone.” She brought her hands together, as if praying for patience, not grace.

“It’s six tests in this bag,” I said, holding it up. “And you’re gonna pee on every single one of them tonight.”

She folded her arms across her chest, jaw tight, and I could see the wall going up, brick by brick. She was ready to fight me on this, and I was ready to push back.

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you’ve been sick for weeks, and I’m not about to sit here and keep pretending I don’t see what’s happening.”

“You don’t know shit,” she snapped, backing a step away.

“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I don’t. That’s why I brought the tests.”

She tilted her head like she didn’t believe what she was hearing. “So, what? You think you can force me to do something I don’t want to do?”

“I don’t think anything,” I sneered. “You’re gonna take the tests, by choice or by force. That part’s up to you.”

She stared at me, her jaw tensed, and her breathing ragged as she debated whether to slap the bag out of my hand or storm out of the room.

“Now’s not the time to act brand new,” I added. “You know how I move, and I don’t repeat myself. So, go in that bathroom and handle it, or I’ll walk you in there myself.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Tatum’s eyes dropped to the bag, she snatched it from my hand, and turned on her heel, her mouth set in a tight line as the bathroom door slammed shut behind her.

I opened it right back up. “You’re not doing that without me.”

She didn’t move from where she stood, back to the sink, knuckles tight around the bag. I flipped on the light and stepped inside, closing the door behind me.

“I don’t trust you to be honest right now,” I said as I took the sack from her hands, calm as ever. “So I’m taking the guesswork out.”

Tatum narrowed her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she watched in silence as I emptied the bag onto the counter. I opened all six boxes, lined the sticks up on a clean towel, and unwrapped each one as if I were handling evidence.

“You plan on holding my hand, too?” she asked dryly.

“No,” I said, picking up the first test. “I’m holding this. Let’s go.”

She blinked. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” I said. “Now sit.”

“I swear I hate you right now,” Tatum spat with tears rolling down her face as she pulled her leggings down and sat on the toilet, turning her face away from me.

“Keep on, and the baby’s gonna look just like me.” I grinned while holding the first test steady beneath her. “Piss.”

Tatum huffed with defiance, but the stream hit the stick. When she finished, I laid it on the counter and picked up the next.

“Five more,” I said.

“You don’t think this is a little extreme?” she asked, still not looking at me.

“No,” I said. “It’s necessary.”

One by one, she peed on every test, and I stood there, holding each stick.

We stared at the counter, both of us silent as though the tests were ticking bombs. Tatum pressed her wrist to her eyes and breathed hard, scrubbing away tears. I leaned back on the wall and counted out the slowest fucking three minutes of my life.

At the end, I lined up the sticks in a neat row. Each one bloomed the same bold result, screaming positive in bright, idiot-proof color. I didn't feel relief. No joy. Not even anger, by then. I felt numb, and the silence in the room pressed so hard my chest ached.

I turned to her. She didn't say anything, just braced her arms on her knees and glared at the tile between her sneakers. Her whole body shook from the rage of holding herself together.

“Congratulations,” I said, because neither of us knew what came next. “You’re definitely pregnant, babe. You want to tell me why you tried to keep this shit from me?”

“No,” she said, still not looking up, just drawing hard, slow breaths and digging her nails into her thighs. “I didn’t.”

“You fucking did, Tatum!” My voice reverberated around the room before I noticed how loud I had become. “When did you plan on saying something? When you went into labor?”

Needing to hit something, I slammed my fist against the wall next to the light switch with enough force to make it sting.

Tatum jumped. “No! I just needed time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to get my shit in order because you’re a controlling asshole who thinks I’m weak and incapable of making decisions for our family!” She screamed in my face.

I stepped forward, my whole body tensed, jaw locked so tight it ached. “Don’t even fucking try to put that shit on me.”

“You are!” she screamed, standing up now, bare from the waist down and still not caring.

“You think the minute something’s bigger than you, the whole world has to stop and bow so you can fix it your way.

I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d try to take over.

You’d tell me what to eat, what to feel, who to trust, and I’m already fighting to stay sane as it is! ”

I stared at her, at her eyes, wild and wet, and at her lips, trembling with anger she couldn’t fully swallow.

“You kept our baby a secret,” I said, quieter now, but no less firm. “You didn’t give me a chance. You made a choice to keep it from me, and now you want to stand here and act like I’m the problem for reacting to it?”

Tatum’s breathing slowed just a little, but she didn’t back down.

“I didn’t want to be forced into some fantasy version of motherhood. I didn’t want you or anyone else deciding what kind of mother I’m supposed to be. I needed time to wrap my head around it… alone.”

“You’re not alone,” I said. “You haven’t been alone since the day you became mine. You knew damn well you were pregnant, and you looked me in the face every day and said nothing. That’s not needing space. That’s betrayal.”

She blinked fast. Once. Twice. But she didn’t cry.

“I wasn’t trying to betray you,” she said, her voice lower now, raw. “I was trying to protect what’s mine.”

“And what’s yours,” I growled, “is mine. That’s how this works. You want to be Don Tatum? You want to lead? Then act like it. Lead with truth, not fear.”

Her mouth opened again, but the words didn’t come.

I stepped closer, closing the space between us, lowering my voice even more.

“You lied to me,” I said. “And I’m still standing here. Still not walking out. So you tell me, what exactly were you protecting yourself from?”

Her throat worked hard around a breath she couldn’t get out.

And for the first time all night, she didn’t have an answer.