Chapter 10 #2
"You don't want a baby?" I hate how small my voice sounds.
"Do you?" he asks, brow quirked.
Do I want a baby—not sure. Do I want Saint to want me to have his baby—yes. I'm fucked up in the head.
Four months ago, I would have said absolutely not. A baby meant being trapped forever. But now, with this partnership we've built, with the way he looks at me sometimes like I'm more than just a means to an end...the idea doesn't feel like a prison anymore.
It feels like a possibility.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
"Why were you so pissed last time I got my period?"
He doesn't answer immediately, and I'm about to say fuck it and go back inside. "Antonio is dying."
The words hit me like a slap. "What?"
"He told me months ago. Cancer. He's holding on better than we expected, but he's not doing treatments, and honestly, he's a stubborn bastard. The moment he starts to deteriorate he's going to eat his gun." He shrugs. "Can't really blame him on that one."
He speaks so matter-of-factly that my mouth drops open in shock. My mother and I had a volatile relationship at the end, but I still felt something when she passed.
Saint seems to be resigned.
"That's why he's so desperate for an heir. He wants to know the family will continue before he goes."
"You've known about this for months, and you haven't told me?"
I think about every time I've seen Antonio lately. He's looked the same as ever. Frailer, sure. But he's an old man.
"He wants to keep it under wraps until necessary," Saint runs a hand through his hair.
"I'm your wife," I remind him, since clearly, he needs the reminder. "Family."
"And I was worried I'd add more pressure to the mix," he says. "I read that stress isn't good for conception."
I honestly don't know what to say.
"What happens if I don't get pregnant before Antonio...dies?"
Saint pulls back, makes me look at him. "You will."
"You can't know that." Cancer is unpredictable, and Antonio could turn on a dime.
"I know that we're going to keep trying," he smirks. It's the smile he gives me when I've done something he likes. "Practice makes perfect."
Despite everything, the stress, the pressure, the fear, I almost laugh. Leave it to Saint to turn a fertility conversation into innuendo.
It's not exactly comforting. But coming from Saint, it's close.
"I feel like I'm going crazy," I admit. "Seeing her pregnant. Knowing I'm still not. Knowing I'm disappointing everyone," I take a deep breath. "It's fucking with my head."
"You're not disappointing me."
"Aren't I? Isn't that my primary purpose? Womb and intel provider?"
His eyes darken. "You're more than that."
"Cock warmer?"
"Don't be stupid, though I do enjoy that."
I try to smirk, but I'm only half kidding.
Some days I think the moment I stop being interesting, the moment I can't give him what he needs, he'll be done with me.
And the terrifying part is...I don't want him to be done with me.
I like what we're building. It's thrilling. It's sexy.
And that's the most dangerous thing I could have done.
"I need to get it together," I wipe under my eyes. "I'm sure Adrian noticed me running out. He'll have questions."
"You don't have to go back in there."
"Yes, I do. If I run, Adrian wins. He gets to see me broken." I shake my head. "I won't give him that."
Saint studies me for a moment. Then nods. "Alright."
We stand there for a moment longer. His thumb brushes my cheek. It's a rare gesture of tenderness.
"You're not broken," he says again. "Well," he smirks. "No more than the rest of us."
It's the most emotional intelligence I've ever heard from him, and it causes warmth to spread through me.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He steps back, putting space between us. Back to business. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
We walk back inside together. I excuse myself to the bathroom first. In the mirror, I barely recognize myself—eyes red-rimmed, lips pressed thin, shoulders tight with tension.
I fix my lipstick. Powder over the redness. Take three deep breaths.
By the time I open the door, I'm the perfect Marini wife again. Composed. Controlled.
Lying.
"Sorry about that," I say, sliding into my seat. "Something didn't agree with me."
Adrian's eyes are on me. Calculating. "You sure you're alright? You looked upset."
"I'm fine." I meet his stare. "Just caught off guard by the news. It's wonderful."
"Is it the stress?" he asks. There's concern there, but something else underneath. "With everything happening lately, the attacks, the losses, I imagine it's taking a toll."
Saint's hand tightens on my thigh under the table. A warning.
"We're handling it," I say carefully.
Adrian nods slowly, but his eyes don't leave mine. "Of course you are."
Sera looks concerned. "Please, tell me more about the twins. Do you know the genders yet?"
The conversation moves forward. I participate when necessary. Smile when appropriate. Play the role of supportive sister-in-law.
But inside, I'm calculating.
Calculating how much longer I can keep this up. How much longer before I actually do break. How much longer before Saint realizes I'm not worth the effort.
Because that's the truth I'm facing tonight:
I'm with a man who only values me for what I can give him.
And tonight proved it. The moment I couldn't give him the one thing he needs—couldn't produce the heir, couldn't be the perfect fertile wife—I fell apart. And he had to comfort me. Had to manage my breakdown like I'm another problem to solve.
That's all I am. A problem. A defective product.
He'll keep me as long as I'm useful. As long as the intel keeps coming and the sex is good and I don't become too much of a liability.
But the moment I stop providing? The moment I'm more trouble than I'm worth?
I'm disposable.
Everyone in my life has taught me that lesson. My mother. Adrian. Even Sera, sitting there glowing with her perfect pregnancy, proving what I can't do.
So, I smile through dessert. Make polite conversation. Let Saint's hand rest possessively on my thigh under the table.
And I bury the terror, the knowledge that I'm always one failure away from being thrown away, deep down where no one can see it.