Chapter Eighty: The Poisoned Call
The water was still warm on my skin when I stepped from the shower, droplets sliding down my shoulders and disappearing into the thick embrace of the towel Sophia had insisted was "the softest money could buy." The bathroom was a sanctuary of steam and lavender, the mirror fogged to opacity, the world outside reduced to a gentle blur.
I loved these moments. The quiet before the day truly began. The few precious minutes when the baby was still drowsy, when my body felt almost normal, when I could pretend that the life I'd stumbled into was simply... mine.
Wrapped in a robe the color of cream, my damp hair curling against my cheeks, I padded barefoot to the vanity. My reflection smiled back at me—a woman softened by love and pregnancy, her eyes holding a light that hadn't been there months ago. I looked happy.
I was happy.
The phone buzzed against the marble.
Unknown number.
A little thrill ran through me, warm and foolish. Rowan changed his numbers constantly—security protocols, he called it. Sometimes he'd use a new line just to send me a silly message, something playful and unexpected that made me laugh.
I picked up the phone, my lips already curving into a smile.
"Love...?"
The voice that answered was not his.
It was smooth. Cultured. The kind of voice that belonged in boardrooms and exclusive clubs, sipping whiskey while discussing things that left marks. And it was cold—so cold it seemed to freeze the steam in the air around me.
"I'm not your love, little girl."
The words landed like a blade between my ribs.
I gripped the edge of the vanity, my knuckles whitening. The warmth drained from my body in a single, sickening rush. My reflection in the fogged mirror became a stranger—pale, wide-eyed, drowning.
"Do you know what your husband does?"
The voice was conversational now, almost bored. A man discussing weather patterns or stock prices. Nothing urgent. Nothing that should make my heart try to claw its way out of my chest.
"You think he's a CEO? Earning legal money in his pretty glass tower while you play house in the country?"
A soft laugh. Cruel. Indulgent.
"No, sweetie. He's a mafia prince."
The word detonated in my skull.
Mafia.
"He runs the illegal business his father 'retired' from. The guns. The smuggling. The enforcement." Each word was a nail, hammered into the coffin of my delusion. "The money that buys your lilacs and your doctors and your soft towels—it's washed in blood, little girl. The nourishing food in your belly? It comes from people's suffering."
I couldn't breathe.
Couldn't move.
Could only stand there, frozen, while the world I'd carefully rebuilt crumbled around me.
"Your unborn child is eating illegal money."
The words echoed in the steam-thick air, bouncing off the marble, seeping into my pores. I pressed a hand to my belly—instinctive, protective—as if I could shield the tiny life inside from the poison pouring through the phone.
"I don't believe you."
The words came out thin. Brittle. A lie so transparent it barely qualified as sound.
The caller laughed again—that same soft, cultured laugh that made my skin crawl. "Of course you don't. You're the broken little wife he keeps in a pretty cage. Why would you believe anything except the fairy tales he feeds you?"
The pressure behind my eyes built—familiar, warning, the old injury stirring in response to the sudden spike of terror. I pressed my free hand to my temple, trying to push it back.
"Ahh, my head..." The words slipped out, a pathetic attempt to deflect, to end this, to make the voice go away.
"Who are you?" I managed, my voice cracking. "Barking nonsense about my husband..."
"You should follow him sometime." The voice was sweet now, venom wrapped in honey. "See for yourself what the father of your child really is when he's not playing house with his broken little wife. See the guns. See the deals. See the blood on his hands that no amount of lavender soap can wash away."
The line went dead.
I stood there, dripping onto the bathmat, the phone clutched in a hand that wouldn't stop shaking. The steam had begun to clear, the mirror slowly revealing my reflection—a woman with hollow eyes and a face the color of ash.
The room, so safe and warm moments ago, felt alien. Wrong. The scent of lavender turned cloying, sickly sweet, the smell of a tomb dressed up to look like a home.
Mafia.
The word wouldn't stop echoing.
I'd known his world was dangerous. I'd accepted that—hadn't I? I'd imagined corporate warfare, ruthless negotiations, the kind of shadowy politics my own family played. The kind that left scars on reputations, not on bodies.
But mafia?
Guns?
Blood money?
I sank onto the closed toilet lid, my legs no longer capable of holding me. My mind raced, assembling fragments I'd always chosen to ignore. The way Leo and Leon moved—not like bodyguards, but like soldiers. The casual violence in Rowan's reflexes. The way certain conversations stopped when I entered a room. The respect—no, the fear—in the eyes of men who came to the house.
Charles Royce.
Rowan's father, with his kind eyes and his gentle laugh and his passionate debates about rocking chairs and friendly shadows. Charles Royce, retired.
Retired from what?
The caller's words echoed, twisting in my already-injured mind. The nourishing food in your belly... your unborn child eating illegal money.
A wave of nausea, unrelated to pregnancy, crashed over me. I lunged for the toilet, my stomach heaving, but nothing came—just the dry, wrenching spasms of a body trying to purge poison it couldn't reach.
When it passed, I slumped against the cold porcelain, tears streaming down my face. Not just from fear. From betrayal.
He'd never told me.
Not once.
He'd let me believe in the CEO, the legitimate businessman, the man who'd built an empire from nothing. He'd made love to me in beds bought with... what? What currency had purchased this robe, this bathroom, this life?
And our child.
Our innocent, unborn child.
What legacy were we giving it?
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The headache surged—a punishing throb behind my eyes that I recognized too well. The old injury, awakened by the spike of terror, demanding attention. But this pain was different from the others. It wasn't just physical.
It was the sound of my carefully reconstructed world cracking right down the middle.
I don't know how long I sat there. Minutes. Hours. Time had lost meaning. The steam cleared completely, the mirror showing me my own hollowed-out face in unforgiving clarity. My phone lay on the floor where I'd dropped it, its screen dark, its poison delivered.
Footsteps in the hallway.
I recognized them instantly—that distinctive stride, purposeful and sure. Rowan. Coming to check on me, as he did every morning. Coming to press a kiss to my forehead and ask how I'd slept and pretend that everything was exactly as it seemed.
I couldn't face him.
Not yet.
Not until I understood.
I pushed myself up, my legs shaky, my head pounding. I crossed to the door and locked it—a soft click that felt like a declaration. Then I leaned against the wood, pressing my forehead to its cool surface, and waited.
The footsteps stopped.
A pause.
Then a knock—gentle, questioning.
"Aira? Everything okay?"
His voice. The same voice that had whispered love against my skin, that had promised to burn the world to keep me safe. The same voice that had never once mentioned the truth of what he was.
I closed my eyes.
"Fine," I managed. "Just tired. I'm going to rest a bit longer."
Silence.
I could feel him on the other side of the door—his presence, his concern, his terrible, beautiful, deceptive love.
"Okay." A pause. "I'll have Mrs. O'Malley bring you tea when you're ready."
His footsteps retreated.
And I slid down the door, landing in a heap on the cold marble floor, my hand pressed to my belly and my heart a shattered mess in my chest.
The happy glow was gone.
Extinguished by a single, poisoned call.
The fortress of the Royce house now felt like a beautifully decorated cell, paid for with a currency I didn't want to understand. The sunroom with its hope-blue walls, the nursery with its friendly shadows, the garden where we'd planned our second vows—all of it built on a foundation of lies.
I had followed my heart into the dark, believing I was choosing a complicated man. A man damaged by grief and revenge, yes, but a man capable of love.
What if I had chosen a monster instead?
And what if the tiny life growing inside me was bound to that monster's legacy forever?
I pressed my face to my knees and let the tears come—silent, hopeless, endless. The baby fluttered against my palm, a tiny kick that should have brought joy but instead brought only more fear.
What kind of world were we bringing you into?
The question had no answer.
Only the echo of a stranger's voice, smooth and cruel, promising that the truth was far worse than any fairy tale.
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