23. Cassie
CASSIE
W hat happens next passes in disjointed fragments. Camden rushing out, Taylor appearing with wide, frightened eyes. The phone call, Roman's voice sharp with alarm. His arrival moments later, face drawn with fear as he takes in the sight of me—pale, trembling, the stain on my dress unmistakable.
"I'm taking you to the hospital," he says, no room for argument in his tone. "Now."
"The Grant meeting," I protest weakly. "It's in an hour. You can't miss it."
"Watch me." He's already gathering my things, his arm supporting my waist with gentle strength. "Zara's rescheduling. This is all that matters right now."
The ride to the hospital passes in tense silence, Roman's hand gripping mine so tightly it almost hurts.
I can feel his fear matching my own—the terror that this tiny life we've only just discovered is already slipping away.
I've never seen him like this, not even during the most stressful business crisis.
His legendary control has abandoned him entirely, raw emotion visible in every line of his face.
"It could be normal," I say, trying to convince myself as much as him. "The doctor mentioned spotting can happen."
"We're not taking chances," he says, his voice rough. "Not with you. Not with our baby."
Our baby. Two simple words that have transformed everything in our lives, reordering priorities, reshaping futures. I lean against his shoulder, drawing strength from his solid presence, and try not to think about how quickly something can be lost before it's fully realized.
At the hospital, Roman's name ensures immediate attention. Within minutes, I'm in an exam room, a concerned doctor explaining the ultrasound procedure while Roman paces beside the bed, his composure cracking with each passing moment.
"Please," he says to the doctor, and I'm stunned to hear actual pleading in his voice. "Just tell us if the baby is okay."
The doctor's face remains professionally neutral as she applies the gel and positions the wand. The room fills with static, and then—the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. A rapid, rhythmic whooshing that makes the doctor smile for the first time.
"That's a strong heartbeat," she says, turning the screen so we can see. "One hundred and sixty-two beats per minute, exactly where we want it to be."
"But the bleeding," I say, hardly daring to believe the evidence before my eyes—the tiny flickering light on the screen, the thundering proof of life filling the room.
"Some spotting is normal in early pregnancy," she explains. "I don't see any signs of concern on the ultrasound. The placenta is developing normally, and the embryo measures right on schedule for seven weeks."
"So everything's okay?" Roman asks, his voice hoarse with emotion.
"Everything looks perfect," she confirms. "But I do want you to take it easy for the next few days, Ms. Monroe. Reduce stress, rest more, stay hydrated."
"I'll make sure of it," Roman says, and in his voice is the unmistakable return of the CEO—the man who makes things happen, who bends circumstances to his will.
I should find it irritating, this automatic assumption of control over my well-being. Instead, it fills me with a strange comfort. Right now, I don't want to be strong alone. I want to lean, just a little, on someone who's willing to carry part of the weight.
Back at my apartment, Roman is in full caretaker mode—arranging pillows, bringing water, checking his watch every time I so much as shift position on the couch. It would be amusing if it weren't so endearing.
"You don't have to hover," I tell him as he rearranges the throw blanket over me for the third time. "The doctor said everything's fine."
"She said to rest and reduce stress," he counters, perching on the edge of the couch. "I'm simply ensuring compliance with medical directives."
"Is that what you're calling it?" I can't help but smile at his seriousness. "Not overprotective boyfriend behavior?"
"Overprotective father behavior," he corrects, his hand finding mine. "I'm afraid you're going to have to get used to it."
The simple declaration, said so casually, brings unexpected tears to my eyes. Father. He's embracing this role with the same dedicated intensity he brings to everything. But there's a tenderness in it I've never seen before, a softness that contradicts everything the world knows about Roman Kade.
A knock at the door interrupts before I can respond. Roman tenses immediately, protective instincts flaring. "Are you expecting someone?"
"No, but it's probably Mia. She has a key but still knocks." I start to rise, but Roman gently pushes me back against the pillows.
"I'll get it," he says, moving toward the door with wary efficiency.
I hear Mia's voice in the entryway, bright with her usual energy. "I brought soup! Taylor said you weren't feeling well, so I... oh. You're here."
Her surprise at finding Roman answering my door is evident even from the other room. Despite everything that's happened, we haven't had time to tell Mia about the pregnancy. Roman ushers her into the living room, where she stops short at the sight of me bundled on the couch.
"What's going on?" she asks, her gaze darting between us. "Are you really sick? Why is Roman playing nurse?”
“I’m not sick… exactly,” I say, gently patting the seat beside me. “There’s something we need to tell you. Something that didn’t come from those awful blog posts.”
I can see her trying to connect the dots—her brow furrows, her mouth opens, closes. Then her eyes widen slightly, like the truth slides into place all at once.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, her hand going to her mouth. “You’re pregnant. That’s what all those stories were really about.”
I nod, watching her expression carefully. "Seven weeks. We just found out ourselves, barely a week ago. We were going to tell you this weekend, after things settled down."
"And today? What happened today that has you looking like death warmed over and Roman hovering like a helicopter parent already?"
"A scare," Roman answers when I hesitate. "Some bleeding. But the doctor says everything is fine."
Mia's eyes widen, her hand reaching automatically for mine. "Oh my god, Cass. Are you okay? Is the baby okay?"
"We're both fine," I assure her, squeezing her hand. "Just a false alarm that reminded us how quickly priorities can change."
"So I'm going to be an aunt." A smile blooms across Mia's face, genuine excitement replacing concern. "Aunt Mia. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
"The best," I agree, relief flooding through me at her immediate acceptance. "Though I'm still getting used to the idea of 'Mom' myself."
"You're going to be amazing at it," she says with characteristic certainty. Then, surprisingly, she turns to Roman. "Both of you are."
The simple vote of confidence seems to catch Roman off guard. He's been watching our exchange with careful attention, as if measuring Mia's reaction, preparing for rejection or judgment. Instead, her easy inclusion of him in this new family configuration visibly moves him.
"Thank you," he says simply. "That means more than you know."
Mia stays for an hour, her presence bringing normalcy to what has been the most abnormal day.
She chats about her internship, about a new technique she's developing, about everything except the media storm surrounding us.
It's exactly what I need—a reminder that life continues beyond headlines and health scares.
After she leaves, Roman and I sit in comfortable silence, his arm around my shoulders, my head resting against him. The day's events have left me drained but strangely peaceful. Nothing like a brush with tragic loss to clarify what truly matters.
"We need to get ahead of this," I say finally. "The media speculation, the half-truths. We need to tell our own story."
Roman nods, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm. "I've been thinking the same thing. No more hiding, no more separate arrivals at events, no more pretending our relationship doesn't exist outside office hours."
"A joint statement?" I suggest. "Simple, factual, with a request for privacy regarding the pregnancy?"
"That's a start." He shifts to look at me directly. "But I think we need more. A clear signal that this isn't just some office fling or power play."
I study his face, reading the determination there. "What exactly are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting we face this together. Completely together." His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining. "Move in with me. Not to my penthouse—somewhere new, like we discussed. Somewhere that's ours."
The offer hangs between us, momentous and mundane simultaneously. Living together. The logical next step, yet somehow more significant than even the pregnancy in formalizing what we are to each other.
"That's a big step," I say, though my heart is already racing ahead to imagine it.
"So is having a child together," he points out with a small smile.
"But yes, it is. And I'm not proposing it just because of the baby, or the media situation.
I'm proposing it because I sleep better with you beside me.
Because my penthouse feels empty when you're not there.
Because I love you, and I want our lives intertwined in every way possible. "
The simple honesty in his voice undoes me. This man who calculates every business risk, who strategizes three moves ahead in every negotiation, is offering the most straightforward truth: he wants me with him. Not for optics or convenience, but because he sleeps better when I'm there.
"Yes," I say, the word coming easily. "Let's find our place. Together."
His smile is rare and radiant, transforming his usually serious face. He leans forward, capturing my mouth in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens, his hand coming up to cradle my face with exquisite tenderness.
"The doctor said to rest," I remind him when we break apart, both slightly breathless.
"This is restful," he argues, pressing feather-light kisses along my jaw. "Very therapeutic."
"Is that your professional medical opinion, Dr. Kade?" I tease, though I'm already melting under his touch.
"Absolutely," he murmurs against my skin. "Prescribed treatment: extensive physical contact of a gentle nature."
His hands skim down my sides with deliberate slowness, treating me like precious cargo.
The urgency that typically characterizes our physical relationship has transformed into something new—a reverent exploration, a conscious celebration of my body not just as a source of pleasure but as the vessel carrying our child.
When he finally carries me to bed, it's with such care that tears spring to my eyes. He notices immediately, his expression turning concerned.
"Are you in pain? Should we stop?"
"No," I whisper, pulling him down to me. "I'm just not used to being cherished."
Understanding softens his features. "Then I have months of making up to do."
In the quiet of the room, his hand rests protectively over my still-flat stomach, his breathing even against my neck. I cover his hand with mine, marveling at how this man who once seemed so unreachable has become my most steadfast harbor.
"I love you," I whisper, not certain if he's still awake.
His arm tightens around me, his voice low and certain in the darkness. "And I love you. Both of you."
Tomorrow will bring more headlines, more speculation, and more challenges to our still-evolving relationship. But right now, in this moment of perfect peace, I know with bone-deep certainty that we can weather whatever comes.
The storm may rage, but we have built our shelter. Together.