Mira stayed on the bathroom floor longer than she realized.
Time passed in quiet, disjointed fragments—measured not in minutes, but in breaths she had to consciously take. The cool tile pressed against her spine, grounding her just enough to keep her from floating away entirely. Her knees were drawn close, her shoulders hunched inward, as though her body instinctively knew it needed to protect something fragile.
The pregnancy test rested loosely in her palm.
Two pink lines.
They didn't blur. They didn't fade. They remained sharp and unmistakable, silent in a way that felt cruel. No alarms. No warning. Just certainty.
She turned it once in her fingers, then back again, as if a different angle might somehow change what it was telling her. It didn't. The result stayed the same—unmoved by hope, denial, or the thin, fragile wish that this was some elaborate mistake.
The shock hadn't worn off. It hadn't exploded or collapsed either. It had settled—slow and heavy—into her chest, forming a tight, aching pressure that made every inhale feel measured, every exhale deliberate. Her body felt oddly distant, like she was observing herself from somewhere just outside her own skin.
Livia hovered nearby, pacing once, then stopping, then pacing again. She tried not to stare, but her eyes kept drifting back to Mira, as if she feared her sister might suddenly disappear if she looked away too long.
"You don't have to talk right now," Livia said softly. "You don't have to do anything. Just… sit. I'm here."
Mira didn't answer.
She wasn't sure she could form words that made sense anymore. Language felt insufficient for something this final. This irreversible.
Her mind replayed the last twenty-four hours in fractured flashes—the controlled elegance of the private dining room, the way Cassian had watched her as if she were something dangerous and precious at the same time, the tension humming between them like a live wire. The conversation that had been building toward something unavoidable. Then the interruption. His abrupt departure. The hollow, unfinished feeling it left behind.
She wondered, distantly, if some part of her had known even then. If her body had already been holding onto a truth her mind hadn't caught up to yet.
None of it had prepared her for this.
Her phone buzzed against the counter.
The sound sliced through the quiet like a blade.
Livia froze mid-step. "Someone's calling you."
Mira's chest tightened instinctively. She didn't look up at first, as if ignoring the sound might make it stop. When it buzzed again, sharper this time, she flinched despite herself.
Livia moved closer, glancing at the screen—and went still. "Mira," she said carefully. "It's Cassian."
Mira's breath stalled. "What?"
Livia handed her the phone. The screen told the story before Mira could even process it: five missed calls. Several unread messages. One new notification, delivered seconds ago.
Cassian's tone came through even without hearing his voice—sharp, clipped, urgent. He never wasted words unless something mattered.
TEXT:
Where are you?
We need to talk.
Not at the estate.
I'll send the address.
Come alone. Avoid the media.
Mira stared at the screen, her pulse thudding unevenly. The weight in her chest shifted, tightening into something closer to dread. "I think… something happened."
"No kidding," Livia muttered. "The entire internet is losing its mind over him."
Another message appeared almost immediately. An address. Followed by instructions that felt deliberate, controlled—like everything else about him.
Use the back entrance. No cameras. No one should see you.
Mira closed her eyes.
She didn't want to face him like this—unsteady, shaken, carrying words she didn't know how to say without breaking. She didn't want to see the calculation behind his eyes when she told him something that couldn't be negotiated or undone. But hiding wasn't an option. Cassian Draymond wasn't the kind of man who accepted silence. And this… this wasn't something she could keep from him.
"I have to go," she said quietly.
Livia studied her for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. "Fine. But call me the moment you're done. And don't faint."
"What makes you think I'd do that?"
"You're pale, shaking, pregnant, and dealing with a Draymond," Livia replied flatly. "Statistically, you're a disaster waiting to happen."
Despite everything, Mira let out a small, breathless laugh. It felt strange in her chest, like it didn't quite belong there anymore.
She didn't feel brave. She didn't feel ready. But she pushed herself up anyway, because standing still suddenly felt more terrifying than moving forward.
Leaving the Serrano Estate unnoticed took more effort than it should have.
She changed into simple jeans and a cap, tying her hair back and stripping herself of anything recognizable. The act felt symbolic—like she was peeling away layers of who she was supposed to be. The hallways felt longer than usual, the silence pressing in on her from all sides. Every step echoed too loudly. Every shadow felt like it lingered.
The guards barely glanced at her when she slipped through the side exit reserved for deliveries, and the lack of resistance felt unsettling in itself.
The black car waited beyond the gates, discreet and anonymous.
The ride was silent. Tense. Suffocating.
Mira watched the city pass without really seeing it, her thoughts circling relentlessly around two pink lines. Each repetition tightened the knot in her chest. She knew Cassian needed to know—but the idea of saying the words out loud made her palms damp and her throat constrict. She wondered how many times people practiced confessions like this in their heads, and whether any of them ever went the way they imagined.
The car stopped in front of a quiet, glass-fronted building—one of the Draymond Group's lesser-used offices. No reporters. No flashing cameras. Just calm before the storm.
Ryan Hale stood at the entrance.
"Ms. Serrano," he said with a brief nod, eyes flicking over her with subtle assessment, "he's inside. No interruptions."
"Thank you."
Her pulse quickened with each step down the hallway, the space too sleek, too controlled. Cassian stood near a desk, sleeves rolled up, posture rigid. It looked like he'd been pacing for some time, restrained energy barely contained.
Relief flickered across his face when he saw her—brief, instinctive—quickly masked by irritation.
"You didn't pick up."
"I wasn't near my phone."
He didn't argue. Instead, he lifted his tablet and turned it toward her.
"This is why I called."
The headlines hit her all at once, sharp and unforgiving.
BREAKING: Cassian Draymond & Mira Serrano Seen Leaving Private Dinner
#DraymondSerrano Trending Worldwide
Rival Heirs or Secret Lovers?
"I didn't know it spread this fast," she said, her voice steady despite the way her chest tightened.
"It wasn't supposed to spread at all," he replied, frustration threading his voice. "Both our families are preparing statements. I wanted you to hear it from me first."
"There's something I need to tell you too."
He stilled. Not a word. Not a movement. Just complete attention.
"What is it?"
Her courage faltered. Her hand drifted unconsciously to her stomach, fingers pressing lightly as if to reassure herself this was real.
Cassian noticed immediately. He closed the distance between them in two strides. "Mira," he said quietly, voice controlled but intense, "what's going on?"
She swallowed hard. "I'm pregnant."
Silence followed—dense and absolute.
Cassian didn't move. Didn't speak. Shock crossed his face—then something heavier, more dangerous. Calculation fought with instinct, and for a moment, she saw both.
"And it's yours," she added softly. "I'm keeping it."
Several seconds passed before he exhaled, slow and deliberate.
"I understand," he said. "And I'll take responsibility. For you. For the child."
"It's not about responsibility—"
"It is for me," he said firmly, not unkindly. "Let me handle the media. Everything else. Go home. Rest."
She nodded, overwhelmed by the calm in his voice more than anything else.
"We'll talk properly soon," he added. "I promise."
She believed him—not because she trusted promises, but because Cassian Draymond didn't make them lightly.
The Serrano foyer felt wrong the moment she stepped inside.
The air was tense, heavy, like the house itself was bracing for impact. Regis Serrano stood near the staircase, cane in hand, eyes sharp and unyielding. He didn't look surprised to see her—only disappointed.
"Where were you?"
"I stepped out."
"With whom?"
Her hesitation was answer enough.
"So the rumors are true," he said. "Cassian Draymond."
"I can explain—"
"I don't want excuses," he snapped. "Reporters are at our gates. Our partners are calling. And you were missing."
Her mother appeared behind him, face pale. "Regis, please—"
"She disobeyed me," he said coldly. "She chose embarrassment over obedience."
"It wasn't intentional," Mira said, her voice steady even as something inside her fractured.
"But it happened," he replied. "And a Serrano who cannot protect the family name does not deserve to inherit it."
Her breath caught. "What are you saying?"
"You are no longer the heir."
The words landed harder than she expected, stripping something essential from her.
"You're disowning me?"
"I'm freeing you," he said. "Leave tonight."
Livia rushed down the stairs, fury flashing across her face. "This is insane!"
"She chose our enemy," Regis said. "That's enough."
Something inside Mira collapsed—not loudly, not dramatically. Just a quiet, final ache that spread through her chest, dull and persistent.
Her mother reached her first, pulling her close. "You'll survive this," Elena whispered. "You always do."
Livia wrapped her arms around them. "You're not alone."
For the first time since seeing those two lines, Mira allowed herself to breathe—shaky, uneven, but real.
Everything had changed.
And there was no going back.