16. Cassie
CASSIE
I woke up feeling like death warmed over.
Actually, that wasn’t entirely true. I woke up feeling like I needed to convince Roman I was dying so I could get a doctor in here without him asking too many questions. The irony wasn’t lost on me—faking illness to confirm I was growing a human being inside me.
The exhaustion was real enough. My body felt heavy, like I was moving through molasses, and there was a persistent ache in my lower back that made every movement feel deliberate. But the real kicker was the nausea that hit me in waves, making my stomach roll with each breath.
Perfect. I could work with this.
I stumbled to the bathroom and caught sight of myself in the mirror. Pale, hollow-eyed, hair a disaster—I was already halfway to looking genuinely sick. But Roman was too observant to be fooled by natural exhaustion alone. I needed to sell this performance.
Twenty minutes later, I’d transformed myself into a walking advertisement for the flu.
A little concealer under my eyes to make the dark circles more pronounced, some pale foundation to wash out my complexion, and strategic smudging to make my lips look bloodless.
I messed up my hair even more and put on Roman’s oversized t-shirt, the one that made me look small and fragile.
When I finally made my way downstairs, moving slowly and gripping the banister for effect, Roman was already in the kitchen with his morning coffee and what looked like surveillance reports spread across the marble counter.
He looked up as I entered, and I watched his expression shift from distraction to sharp concern in the space of a heartbeat.
"Jesus, Cassie." He was on his feet immediately. "You look terrible."
"Thanks," I mumbled, letting a genuine tremor creep into my voice. "Feel worse."
His hands found my face, tilting my chin up so he could study me with those piercing blue eyes. I forced myself to stay still under his scrutiny, to let him see the pallor I’d created, the exhaustion that was only half-feigned.
"How long have you been feeling like this?" His voice carried that note of command that made grown men obey without question, but there was something softer underneath. Worry.
"Since yesterday," I lied, leaning into his touch despite myself. "Thought it would pass, but..."
I swayed slightly, just enough to make him catch my elbow. His jaw clenched.
"Sit down." He guided me to one of the bar stools, his movements careful, protective. "Have you eaten anything?"
"Can’t." I pressed a hand to my stomach, grateful that the gesture felt natural. "Everything makes me nauseous."
Roman’s expression darkened. In his world, weakness was vulnerability, and vulnerability was death. The fact that I was sick in his house, under his protection, clearly didn’t sit well with him.
"I’m calling a doctor," he said, already reaching for his phone.
"Roman, no—" I caught his wrist, panic flaring. This was what I wanted, but I needed to play the part of someone who didn’t want medical attention. "It’s just the flu. I’ll be fine."
"Like hell." His thumb swept across my cheekbone, and I had to fight not to lean into the touch. "You’re burning up."
I wasn’t, actually, but I didn’t correct him.
"Dr. Grant," Roman said into his phone, his voice brooking no argument. "I need you at the estate. Now. My—" He paused, his eyes finding mine. "My fiancée is sick."
The word sent an unexpected flutter through my chest, but I pushed it down. Focus, Cassie. This was about survival, not romance.
Thirty minutes later, Dr. Grant arrived—a man in his sixties with kind eyes and the sort of calm demeanor that probably came from years of dealing with Roman’s world without asking inconvenient questions.
He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who’d seen everything and judged nothing.
"Mr. Creed," he said, shaking Roman’s hand. "Miss James. I understand you’re not feeling well."
"Just the flu," I said weakly, playing up the tremor in my voice.
Roman’s hand found the small of my back, a claiming touch that sent electricity up my spine despite everything. "She’s been like this since yesterday. Nauseous, exhausted, feverish."
Dr. Grant nodded, setting his medical bag on the counter. "Let’s take a look, shall we? Mr. Creed, perhaps you could give us some privacy while I examine Miss James?"
I felt Roman tense beside me. "I’m not leaving her."
The possessiveness in his voice made my stomach flutter for reasons that had nothing to do with pregnancy. But I needed him gone for this conversation.
"Roman," I said softly, catching his hand. "Please. I’m embarrassed enough as it is."
Something flickered across his features—frustration, maybe, or the recognition that his presence might make me uncomfortable. After a moment, he nodded.
"I’ll be in my office," he said, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. "Call if you need anything."
The moment the door closed behind him, I felt my carefully constructed composure crack.
Dr. Grant studied me with those keen eyes, and I had the distinct impression that very little escaped his notice.
"The flu," he said mildly, pulling on latex gloves. "Is that what we’re calling it?"
I opened my mouth to maintain the charade, but something in his expression—gentle, understanding, completely without judgment—made the words die in my throat.
"I need this to stay between us," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Completely confidential. Please."
He nodded slowly. "Doctor-patient privilege is sacred to me, Miss James. Whatever you tell me, whatever I find, stays in this room unless you explicitly tell me otherwise."
The relief was so overwhelming that I nearly started crying. For the first time since I’d realized what was happening to my body, I wasn’t completely alone with this secret.
"I think I’m pregnant," I said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I haven’t had a period in weeks, I’m nauseous all the time, and I’m exhausted. But I can’t—Roman can’t know. Not yet. Not until I figure out what this means."
Dr. Grant’s expression didn’t change, but his voice gentled even further. "How long have you been experiencing symptoms?"
"Two weeks, maybe three. But the nausea started getting really bad a few days ago."
He nodded, pulling out a stethoscope. "Let’s start with the basics. Blood pressure, temperature, and a quick physical exam. Then we’ll do a pregnancy test to confirm."
The next half an hour passed in a blur of medical routine that felt surprisingly normal despite the extraordinary circumstances. Dr. Grant worked with quiet efficiency, asking gentle questions about my symptoms, my medical history, and my concerns.
When he finally set down his stethoscope and looked at me with those kind eyes, I already knew what he was going to say.
"Congratulations, Miss James. You’re pregnant. Based on your symptoms and the timeline you’ve given me, I’d estimate you’re about four to five weeks along."
The words hit me like a physical blow, even though I’d been expecting them. Four to five weeks. That would put conception right around the time Roman and I had first been together in his office.
"Jesus," I breathed, pressing a hand to my stomach.
"This is good news, I hope?" Dr. Grant asked carefully.
"I don’t know," I admitted. "It’s complicated."
He nodded with the understanding of someone who’d probably heard that phrase more times than he could count.
"Miss James, I need you to understand something. Given Mr. Creed’s.
.. profession, and the stress you’re likely under, this pregnancy is going to require very careful monitoring.
Stress can cause complications, especially in the first trimester. "
"What kind of complications?"
"Miscarriage, for one. High blood pressure. Poor fetal development." His voice was gentle but firm. "You need to take care of yourself. That means proper nutrition, rest, and minimizing stress as much as possible."
Minimizing stress. Right. Because living in a fortress with a man who casually discussed murder over dinner was the definition of low-stress.
"How long can I hide this?" I asked.
"The physical changes usually become noticeable around twelve to sixteen weeks for a first pregnancy. But Miss James—" He leaned forward, his expression serious. "I have to ask. Is there a reason you feel unsafe telling Mr. Creed about this pregnancy?"
The question hit too close to home. Because the truth was, I didn’t feel unsafe with Roman. If anything, I felt more protected than I ever had in my life. But a baby would change everything between us, and would add a layer of complication to an already impossible situation.
"It’s not that," I said finally. "It’s just—this world he lives in, the danger. I need to figure out how to protect this child before I tell him."
Dr. Grant studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "I understand. But Miss James, I strongly encourage you not to wait too long. Stress aside, you’re going to need support during this pregnancy. And hiding something this significant from someone you’re living with... It’s not sustainable."
"I know." I twisted my hands in my lap. "I just need time."
"Of course." He reached into his bag and pulled out a small bottle of prenatal vitamins. "Take one of these daily. Try to eat small, frequent meals to combat the nausea. Crackers and ginger tea can help. And Miss James?"
"Yes?"
"If you need anything—medical advice, someone to talk to, help with the transition when you’re ready to tell Mr. Creed—don’t hesitate to call me. I’ve been the family physician for years. I understand the unique challenges of this world."
The casual way he referenced "this world" told me everything I needed to know about Dr. Grant’s experience with Roman’s family. He’d probably seen his share of secrets, complications, and dangerous situations.
"Thank you," I whispered, tucking the vitamin bottle into my pocket.
He was packing up his equipment when the door opened, and Roman appeared, his sharp gaze immediately finding mine. I watched his eyes catalog every detail—my posture, my color, the way I was sitting.
"How is she?" he asked Dr. Grant, but his attention never left my face.
"A mild case of influenza," Dr. Grant said smoothly. "Rest, fluids, and she should be feeling better in a few days. I’ve given her some vitamins to help boost her immune system."
Roman nodded, but I could see the wheels turning behind those blue eyes. He wasn’t entirely convinced.
"She needs to stay in bed," Dr. Grant continued. "Minimal stress, minimal activity. Let her body fight this off naturally."
"Done." Roman moved to my side, his hand finding my shoulder with possessive gentleness. "Whatever she needs."
Dr. Grant gathered his things and headed for the door, but paused to look back at me. "Rest, Miss James. And remember what we discussed about taking care of yourself."
The moment he was gone, Roman’s full attention focused on me like a laser. Those blue eyes seemed to see straight through to my soul, and I had to work to keep my expression neutral.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it.
I managed what I hoped looked like a fragile smile, hiding the truth behind the lie I’d constructed. "Better. Tired, but better."
But as Roman studied my face, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew I was hiding something.
And God help me, I had no idea how much longer I could keep this secret.