Chapter 5 - Two Pregnancies, One Lie
Savannah was not pregnant.
Vincent believed she was because she had told him she was.
That was the first thing she admitted after we refused to let him inside.
We watched him from the security monitor while snow collected on his coat.
Declan turned to Savannah.
“You told your father you were pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“With whose child?”
She looked at him.
His face became horrified.
“No.”
“Relax. I said the father was private.”
“Why?”
“To keep him away from Amelia.”
The room went silent.
Savannah looked embarrassed.
“My father suspected Declan’s search was about a woman. After the grocery footage appeared, Adrian told him the woman looked pregnant. Father started talking about leverage.”
“So you invented a baby?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“To distract him?”
“Yes.”
June muttered, “I like her.”
I ignored that.
Savannah continued.
“I told Father I was pregnant by someone he would disapprove of and that if he touched Amelia, I’d go public with everything.”
“What everything?” Gavin asked.
“His offshore accounts.”
Gavin almost smiled.
“Effective.”
“Usually.”
Declan rubbed his forehead.
“This is insane.”
Savannah looked at him.
“From you, that is rude.”
Fair.
Vincent remained outside.
Eventually, Declan went to speak with him.
Savannah insisted on joining.
I stayed inside.
Not because anyone ordered me.
Because for once, I chose distance.
Through the window, I watched father and daughter argue.
Vincent looked furious.
Savannah looked unmovable.
Then he pointed toward the house.
Savannah slapped his hand down.
I did not need audio to understand that.
When they returned, Vincent was gone.
Savannah looked exhausted.
“He knows my pregnancy is fake.”
“How?” I asked.
“He asked for the doctor.”
Of course.
“What now?”
“He knows Amelia’s baby is real.”
My stomach tightened.
Declan’s face darkened.
“How?”
“I didn’t tell him. He guessed from my lie.”
We had made it worse.
Not intentionally.
Still worse.
Gavin opened the flash drive from Savannah’s brother.
Inside were lists of allies, financial vulnerabilities, and one document labeled CONTINUITY.
I hated it immediately.
It outlined a proposed agreement.
If Declan acknowledged a biological child, Voss captains would demand the child be placed under “family protection” until adulthood.
Protection.
The word made me sick.
“No.”
Declan read it twice.
Then tore the printed page in half.
“That isn’t legally binding.”
Gavin shook his head.
“It doesn’t need to be for them.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means old men believe tradition outranks law.”
“Then old men can learn.”
Declan looked at me.
For the first time, I saw something in his expression that was not protectiveness.
Respect.
“Exactly.”
The next days became strategy.
Not the kind Declan had used before.
This time he told me everything relevant.
No hidden meetings.
No decisions about me without me.
His organization owned legitimate companies, restaurants, warehouses, real estate, and transport firms mixed with criminal operations.
The succession customs were not written in one place.
That made them easier to dismantle legally and harder socially.
Declan began transferring lawful businesses into a trust that excluded any automatic inheritance role.
He removed captains from corporate boards.
Closed accounts tied to enforcement crews.
Redirected protection contracts to licensed security firms.
Men protested.
Some threatened to leave.
He let them.
“Won’t that weaken you?” I asked.
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate.
“Does that scare you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do it?”
He looked at my stomach.
Then corrected himself and looked at my face.
“Because strength that requires my daughter to inherit enemies is failure.”
My chest tightened.
He had called her my daughter.
Not ours.
Not yet.
That restraint mattered.
I spent mornings restoring a damaged Federal-style cabinet in the farmhouse barn because I needed something ordinary.
Declan found me there one afternoon.
He stood at the doorway.
“Can I come in?”
“You’ve learned one phrase very well.”
“I practice.”
“Come in.”
He entered.
No suit.
Dark sweater.
Jeans.
I had almost forgotten he owned clothes without armor.
He watched me clean old varnish.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I missed this.”
“You missed toxic solvent?”
“I missed watching you work.”
I looked away.
“That’s inconvenient.”
“I know.”
He did not move closer.
Good.
“I have a question,” he said.
“What?”
“Why burn the ultrasound?”
My hand stopped.
“How do you know I did?”
“Gavin found ash in the sink after you disappeared.”
I had forgotten.
“I was angry.”
“At me.”
“Yes.”
“Did you regret it?”
The question felt intimate.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Then reached into his pocket.
I tensed.
He pulled out a folded paper envelope.
“I asked Northwestern for records after I learned.”
My pulse jumped.
“They gave you my medical file?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I gave them proof of paternity?”
“You didn’t have proof.”
“Exactly. They refused.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
“Good.”
“So I asked Gavin to contact the clinic photographer who printed auxiliary images for teaching files.”
My smile vanished.
“Declan.”
“I know. Boundary.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t get your chart.”
“What did you get?”
He placed the envelope on the workbench.
“A blank request form.”
I stared.
He looked almost embarrassed.
“I thought maybe you could request a copy yourself if you wanted.”
That was it.
No stolen image.
No dramatic replacement.
Just a form.
I felt tears sting.
“You could have forged it.”
“Yes.”
“You could have bought someone.”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
I sat down.
The baby moved.
Strong this time.
My hand went to the spot.
Declan saw.
He looked away.
I hated how much that courtesy moved me.
“Do you want to feel?”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
His head snapped toward me.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
He stayed still.
I laughed through tears.
“That was the correct answer.”
He almost smiled.
I took his hand.
Placed it lightly against the side of my stomach.
Nothing.
His face fell.
Then the baby kicked.
Hard.
Declan froze.
His entire hand trembled.
“She kicked me.”
“She kicks everyone.”
“She has excellent instincts.”
I laughed.
He looked at me.
Tears in his eyes.
Not hidden.
Then Gavin called from the doorway.
“Sorry.”
Of course.
Declan removed his hand immediately.
“What?”
Gavin held a phone.
“Adrian Calloway is dead.”
Savannah, standing behind him, went white.
“What?”
Gavin continued.
“Car bomb. Chicago.”
Savannah grabbed the doorframe.
Declan’s face changed.
Not grief exactly.
Calculation forced by danger.
“Who?”
“No claim yet.”
Then the phone buzzed again.
A message.
One line.
VOSS BLOOD STARTED THIS.
Savannah looked at Declan.
May you like
I looked at my stomach.
The war I had run from had just reached us anyway.
