Secret Twins For My Ex’s SEAL Best Friend (Billionaire Silver Foxes’ Club)

35. Delia

thirty-five

Delia

“You’re pregnant?” Robert repeated softly, like he was trying to make sense of the word.

I felt frozen in place, my feet glued to the bar floor.

Around us, people stared, their murmurs like static in the background of a moment that felt far too loud and far too quiet at the same time.

I forced myself to nod, my throat dry. “Yes,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze didn’t move from mine, though the intensity of it made me want to look away. “Is it…?”

“It’s yours,” I confirmed, the words trembling as they left my mouth. My voice cracked, and I had to swallow hard to keep from losing what little composure I had left.

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Robert just stared at me, his disarming green eyes unreadable. He wasn’t angry—not exactly—but he looked like someone had pulled the ground out from under him.

A tiny, fragile part of me wanted him to say something—anything—but at the same time, I dreaded whatever might come out of his mouth. I didn’t know how long we stood there, but finally, he spoke.

“Let’s get out of here,” Robert said abruptly, his deep voice steady as he leaned over the bar and reached for my hand.

I blinked, his words breaking through the haze that had surrounded me.

I glanced around at the bar littered with glasses and the small crowd that still hadn’t gone back to their conversations. “I… I still have a shift to finish,” I stammered.

Robert frowned, his brow furrowing like I’d said something absurd. “Close it down early.”

“Robert, I can’t just leave,” I said, exasperated. “This is my job. Management would lose it if I closed early. We make most of our money at night.”

“You’re not staying here,” he said, his voice like stone. He stood abruptly, towering over me. “How much would it cost to close the place down right now?”

“What?” I sputtered, staring up at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“What does the drawer usually make on a Wednesday night?” Robert asked, his gaze sweeping across the bar as though he could calculate it himself by sheer force of will.

I hesitated, thrown off by the absurdity of the question. “I don’t know… on a Wednesday…maybe $4,000?”

He nodded, seemingly unfazed, as though that number meant nothing to him.

Slowly, he reached for his wallet and pulled out a sleek black card, heavier than any credit card I’d ever seen. He handed it to me without hesitation. “Run it for $8,000.”

I stared at the card like it might explode. “Robert, are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, climbing up onto one of the tables before I could stop him.

His size and weight made it creak dangerously, but he didn’t seem to care. He turned to me over his shoulder and winked. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Robert, no!” I hissed, but it was too late.

“Excuse me!” he boomed, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. The entire bar fell silent. Heads turned, all eyes on him.

Robert had that kind of presence—the kind that commanded attention without even trying. I remembered noticing it when I saw him in class before I recognized him, how he seemed larger than life, someone impossible to ignore.

The quiet murmurs of the crowd turned to nothing but expectant silence as he continued.

“Listen up, folks! I need you all to leave. Now.”

A ripple of annoyed groans and protests ran through the room.

“Hold on,” he added, holding up a hand. “I’ll make it worth your while. Talk it over, and tell me how much you’d want to make it worth your while. Name a price.” Everyone stood silently, no one turning to talk it over. “Go on. You have three minutes. I’ll be the guy on the table.”

The crowd erupted into chattering, people whispering and throwing numbers around.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing—Robert Hastings, standing on a table, negotiating with a bar full of strangers. I didn’t know whether to laugh or sink into the floor in embarrassment.

After a moment, a man stepped forward, clearing his throat. “150 each,” he announced, his voice bold and certain.

Robert grinned, satisfied, and began counting heads before stepping down from the table with a grace I wouldn’t have expected.

“That works for me.” He walked over to the ATM near the door and withdrew a thick stack of cash. As he did so, I did the math. I had about 25 customers in the bar. At $150 each, that was $3,750. He waved it and announced, “Everyone will get theirs as they leave. Please close out over at the bar and then come this way when you are leaving.”

I could only stand there, stunned into silence, as patrons came to me to close out and made their way in an orderly line toward the door to eagerly take their cash. Within minutes, the place was empty.

When the last person left and the door shut behind them, I finally found my voice. “You didn’t have to do that,” I muttered, though the words lacked any real fight.

Robert shrugged, his tone softer now. “You needed a break.”

I folded my arms, frustration bubbling up even as a small part of me felt grateful.

“I need the money, Robert. I’m still trying to pay for school. Now that you’ve sent everyone away, I won’t get tips.”

His gaze softened, and something flickered in his expression—guilt, maybe, or regret. “I should have thought of that,” he admitted. “How much do you usually make in tips?”

“Robert, seriously—”

“Humor me,” he said gently, holding my gaze.

I sighed, reluctantly answering, “Around $500.”

Without another word, Robert reached into his wallet and pulled out a few crisp hundred-dollar bills, laying them neatly on the counter.

“What’s this?” I asked, my brows furrowing as I stared at the money.

“Your tip,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “For tonight.”

I shook my head, my chest tight. “I can’t take that.”

“You can,” he said firmly, his voice low and steady. “Use it for school. Use it for whatever you need.”

“You can’t buy me,” I told him, offended, though my voice cracked, betraying me.

His eyes softened, and he stepped closer. “I’m not trying to buy you, Delia. If we went on a date, I’d spend it on dinner, drinks—whatever. This is the same thing.”

He paused, his gaze earnest, sincere. “I care about you. And I care about… this baby.”

My breath hitched, tears threatening to spill again. I looked away, unable to handle the intensity of his words.

Robert gently reached for my hand, his touch surprisingly soft for someone so strong. “Sit down,” he said quietly. “Let me clean up, and we can talk.”

I let him pull me toward one of the stools, my body feeling heavy and unsteady as I sat. He walked around the bar and started gathering empty glasses, his broad shoulders moving in a way that somehow comforted me.

Robert’s presence—steady, reliable—was like an anchor. As I watched him work, I realized I’d been telling him he didn’t have to carry his burdens alone.

But maybe I didn’t either.