At that same moment, Bella was carrying plates to the sink, laughing softly at something Rachel had said about the baby preferring pancakes over vegetables. The sound of her laughter filled the kitchen like sunlight—sweet, unguarded, and real.
Meanwhile, miles away, Lucas stood in a room where laughter had no place, only sharp voices, shadows, and looming threats. His men were debating the next move—whether to retaliate against the Russians or lie low—but his mind was elsewhere. His thoughts had already drifted back to the house he'd left behind. To Bella, her cheeks dusted with flour, Rachel tugging on his sleeve and calling him "Dada." To a life he didn't deserve but couldn't walk away from.
The meeting dragged on. Strategies, threats, countermeasures—none of which eased the tight coil in his chest. When it finally ended, Lucas pulled Mark aside.
"Find out who the Russians planted here," he ordered quietly. "I want names, and I want them soon."
Mark nodded, though hesitation flickered in his eyes. Something was off with him, but Lucas shelved it for later. He had more pressing matters.
---
The house was unusually quiet that night. Rachel had long since fallen asleep, her soft snores muffled by the bedroom door, but Bella found herself restless. She sat curled on the living room sofa, a book open in her lap but unread for the past hour. Her eyes kept flicking toward the clock. Almost midnight. Lucas still wasn't home.
She told herself it didn't matter. He was a CEO, always busy, always moving. But her chest tightened anyway. The house felt different without him in it. Empty.
Bella sighed, snapping the book shut. "You're being ridiculous," she muttered. And still, she stayed awake. Waiting.
The low hum of an engine outside caught her attention. Moments later, the lock clicked, and Lucas stepped in, his tall frame filling the entryway. He paused when he saw her still on the sofa, his weariness softening into something else.
"You're still up?"
She shrugged, trying for casual. "Couldn't sleep."
He smirked faintly as he set his jacket aside. "Or were you waiting for me?"
Her cheeks warmed. "Don't flatter yourself. I was reading."
"Mm." His eyes flicked down. "Then why is the book upside down?"
Bella glanced at it and groaned. It really was upside down. Lucas chuckled, low and teasing. "I see."
She turned her face away, grumbling, "Maybe I just like challenging myself."
He didn't press further, but his gaze lingered when she absently rubbed her stomach. His tone softened. "Are you uncomfortable?"
"I'm fine," she said quickly.
He didn't look convinced. "Sit properly. I'll make you something warm. Milk?"
"I can do it myself."
"You could," he said, already pulling out a glass, "but you won't."
Bella bit her lip, torn between irritation and the strange comfort of his protectiveness. In the end, she let him. He returned with a warm glass and placed it gently in her hands.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable—but it was heavy. Weighted with everything they hadn't said.
Then, suddenly, everything went dark. The lights flickered, died, and the hum of the refrigerator cut off. Shadows swallowed the room.
Bella gasped softly. "What—?"
"Power outage, must be because of the storm," Lucas said evenly, though he had already stepped closer. In the faint silver glow of the streetlights seeping through the curtains, his outline stood tall, steady, grounding.
"Don't worry," he murmured, his hand brushing against her arm. "I'm here."
Her pulse jumped. Every detail sharpened in the darkness—the warmth radiating off him, the scent of his cologne, the sound of his steady breathing. He guided her back to the sofa, his hand never leaving hers.
"Lucas…" she whispered, unsure what she even meant to say.
He leaned in slightly, their faces close, too close. The space between them crackled with unspoken tension. For a dizzying heartbeat, she thought he might kiss her.
But reality tugged her back. She pulled her hand away, her voice unsteady. "What are you doing?"
He froze, his eyes glinting faintly in the dark. "I'm making sure you're okay."
"No," she said, firmer this time. "That's not what I mean. This morning—you were so possessive. About what I wore, about how I walked in front of Mark. And then the way you got upset when Mark spoke to me. What is your motive, Lucas? What do you really want from me?"
Silence stretched between them. Bella almost regretted asking. Almost. Finally, Lucas spoke, his voice lower, rawer than she'd ever heard it.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I've never felt like this before. But with you, Bella—with our child—I can't stop myself. I want to protect you. Maybe too much."
Her breath caught. His words stripped him bare, and for the first time, she saw the man beneath the armor—conflicted, vulnerable, uncertain.
"Lucas…" she whispered, her chest aching with emotions she couldn't untangle.
He exhaled, the sound heavy in the dark. "Maybe I shouldn't feel this way. But I do."
The silence returned, but it was no longer empty. It pulsed with the weight of what was unspoken, what was beginning to form between them.
The lights never came back. Later, when they returned to the bedroom, the house still wrapped in darkness, Lucas slid into bed beside her. Without a word, he drew her against him, his palm resting gently on her baby bump. Bella stiffened at first, then slowly relaxed, letting her head rest against his chest.
The storm had quieted outside, but inside the room, a deeper stillness lingered. Bella's breathing was slow and even, her head tucked under Lucas's chin, one hand resting unconsciously against his chest. The faint rise and fall of her body pressed against his made the silence feel alive, every beat of his heart echoing in the quiet night.
Lucas lay wide awake, staring into the shadows. Sleep wouldn't come to him, not when his mind refused to settle.
His eyes softened as they lingered on Bella's face. Strands of hair had slipped across her cheek, and without thinking, he brushed them back gently, careful not to wake her. She shifted slightly but didn't stir, only burrowed closer as though she instinctively knew she was safe with him.
Safe. That word weighed on him more than anything else. He had built an empire on control and fear, on never allowing weakness. But here, with her—this fragile, stubborn woman who carried both his child and a heart big enough to take in a little girl like Rachel—he felt a different kind of responsibility. One that tightened his chest and kept him awake at night.
She had asked him earlier what this was between them, what he wanted. He hadn't given her an answer then—because the truth had been too heavy, too dangerous to hand over in daylight.
But now, in the quiet of the night, with her asleep in his arms, the words slipped past his guard.
He bent his head slightly, his breath brushing against her hair as he whispered, almost to himself, almost to her.
"I like you."
The words lingered in the dark—fragile, unclaimed—meant for no one, and yet only for her. He closed his eyes, pulling her a little closer, as though the confession itself had drained something from him. She didn't stir, didn't hear. Maybe that was better. For now, it was enough that he had spoken it—even if only the night bore witness. Even if he knew what he felt for her went far beyond liking.