Page 55 of Sinful Obsession

“Charlotte?” His voice was a lifeline, urgent.

“I did the test,” I whispered, my voice cracking as I sank into a shadowed armchair. “It’s positive. I’m pregnant.”

A sharp intake of breath on his end. “Oh, God. Okay, don’t panic. We’ll figure this out.”

“How?” I hissed, glancing at the door. “Ethan, this changes everything. I can’t stay here. When can you get me out?”

“I’m working on it,” he assured me, his tone steady but strained. “I promise, I’ll get you out as soon as I can. But I need to put a lot of things in place—contacts, safe routes, contingencies if Cassian tracks you. It’s not just about sneaking you away; it’s about keeping you hidden afterward.”

I pressed my free hand to my forehead, frustration bubbling up. “Give me a date, Ethan. Something to hold onto.”

“I can’t,” he said gently. “Not yet. If I rush this and it goes wrong... I won’t risk your life, or the baby’s. But trust me, it’ll be soon.”

The baby.

The word hung heavy, a reminder of the unknown horror behind it. But then Ethan shifted gears. “Before we go further,you need to do one thing: confirm if Cassian is really not the father.”

I blinked, staring at the phone as if he’d lost his mind.

“What? That doesn’t make sense. I just reconnected with him—there’s no way. I haven’t been with him since... well, since whatever happened in those lost years.”

“Medically, it’s possible to find out even before the baby’s born,” Ethan explained, his voice taking on a clinical edge. “It’s called a prenatal paternity test. They can do it as early as eight weeks with a simple blood draw from you and a DNA sample from Cassian—like hair, saliva, anything. It compares the fetal DNA in your bloodstream to his. Non-invasive, safe for the baby. If the child is not him, we’ll know for sure, and it might give you leverage or peace of mind.”

I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me.

Why suggest this now?

It felt like grasping at straws, but before I could press him, a loud crash echoed from the hallway—the unmistakable sound of a door being forced open.

Panic surged through me like ice water. I shoved the phone behind my back, tucking it into the waistband of my pants just as the library door burst inward.

Cassian stood there, his silhouette framed by the hall light, eyes scanning the room like a predator.

My breath caught, heart slamming against my ribs.

If he saw the phone—if he demanded to search me—the game was over.

He’d discover the calls, the pregnancy, Ethan’s involvement.

The bracelet would confirm my lies with its data, and his “punishment” would be swift and merciless, perhaps ending with me locked away forever, or worse.

“The doctor’s here,” he said flatly, his gaze lingering on me a beat too long.

I forced my voice steady, though my palms were slick with sweat. “This time of night? I told you, nothing’s wrong with me. I don’t need a doctor.”

“Come with me,” he commanded, turning on his heel without another word.

The door hung ajar behind him, and I exhaled shakily, sagging against the chair.

Thank God he hadn’t noticed—hadn’t demanded to see my hands or searched the room.

But the close call left me rattled, my mind racing with what-ifs.

Who summons a doctor in the dead of night? It reeked of control, of his unyielding grip tightening.

If the doctor ran tests and uncovered the pregnancy, I was as good as dead—exposed, vulnerable, at the mercy of Cassian’s rage over a child that wasn’t his.

Escaping seemed impossible; the estate was a fortress, guards at every gate, and now this bracelet tracking my every breath.