[Hunter’s POV]
The message I send isn't through our usual channels. No burner phone. No cryptic text. This time I request an actual meeting through proper channels, because apparently I've developed a death wish alongside my conscience.
She agrees. Probably expects more Montclair intelligence. More useful scraps from her favorite informant.
She's in for a surprise.
I arrive early. Pace the worn carpet until the pattern blurs beneath my feet. Practice opening lines that range from terrible to catastrophic.
"So, funny story about biology..." No. "Remember when we used to have sex?" Absolutely not. "Congratulations on the pregnancy I'm fairly certain is mine" has directness going for it. Also a certain way of getting slapped.
None of them work. I abandon the rehearsals and settle into a chair that's seen better decades. Wait for the woman who has every reason to ignore this summons entirely.
Christina enters wearing one of those oversize real-wool sweaters I've noticed lately. Looser fabric. Strategic draping. Empire waist doing heavy lifting where structure used to be.
The kind of adjustments a woman makes when her body starts changing in ways she'd rather not advertise.
I spent two years memorizing every curve of her body. Every shift in her posture. The way she held herself when tired versus stressed versus hiding something enormous.
She's hiding something enormous. Something that changes absolutely everything.
The subtle fullness to her face that wasn't there a month ago. That protective hand drifting toward her stomach before she catches herself. The careful way she moves now, like she's carrying something precious.
I notice because I can't stop noticing her. Even now. Especially now.
"You don't have any documents," she observes, settling into her chair with regal precision. "No intelligence about the Montclairs?"
"Not today."
Her grey eyes narrow. Suspicion sharpens her features into something beautiful and dangerous. "Then why am I here, Hunter?"
No clever opening. No careful preamble. No more rehearsals of speeches that sound idiotic anyway. I abandon everything and dive headfirst into disaster.
"Are you pregnant?"
The transformation is instantaneous. Walls slam into place with almost audible force. The vulnerable woman vanishes behind the queen she's becoming. Her spine straightens like someone shoved steel into it.
"How did you figure that out?" Her voice could flash-freeze the Thames. Possibly the Atlantic.
"The clothes. The way you move. That hand you keep catching before it reaches your stomach." I hold her gaze without flinching. "And if I'm right about the timeline, that baby is mine."
Silence.
The kind of silence that has actual weight. The kind that presses against your chest and makes breathing feel like a deliberate choice rather than an automatic function.
Christina stares at me. Calculating. Deciding whether to lie, deflect, or simply walk out without dignifying the question with any response at all.
She does none of those things.
"Yes." The word lands flat. Final. A door slamming shut on denial. "It's yours."
The room tilts. Gravity rearranges itself around this new reality. I grip the armrest because apparently the chair has developed motion sickness alongside my suddenly useless legs.
My child. Growing inside her. While I've been passing information through back channels and pretending that made me useful.
"How long have you known?"
"Weeks. Eleven weeks along, according to the royal physician." Her jaw tightens visibly. "The timing is fairly unmistakable."
Eleven weeks. The math is brutally simple. Before the gala. Before everything shattered into pieces I'm still trying to collect.
"What do you want from me?"
Christina laughs—sharp, humorless, cutting. "A time machine would be lovely. Failing that, I have absolutely no idea what I want from you." She meets my eyes directly. "I'm with Daniel now. I'm building something that doesn't include you except as an intelligence source. That's the reality."
The jealousy hits like a fist to the solar plexus. Daniel Cromwell gets to hold her now. Gets to be there when our child grows. Gets the future I incinerated with my own spectacular stupidity.
I force the feeling down. Jealousy is a luxury I surrendered along with everything else. Can't reclaim it now just because reality stings.
"I'll accept whatever role you allow," I say carefully. "Or no role at all. Your choice entirely."
"How generous of you."
"I'm not being generous. I'm being realistic about my position here." I lean forward, needing her to understand the next part with absolute clarity. "But I want you to know something. I will protect you both. You and the baby. Not as a father if you don't want that. Just as someone who will burn down anyone who tries to hurt my child."
"Including your own family?"
"Especially my family. The Montclairs too. Catherine and her serpent smile. Anyone who threatens either of you answers to me."
I pause, allowing a self-deprecating smile. "Which admittedly isn't the most impressive threat. But I'm working on becoming more menacing. Taking notes. Practicing in mirrors."
Something flickers in her expression. Not amusement, exactly. But the armor cracks just slightly. A hairline fracture in the stone.
"Daniel knows," she says after a long moment. "About the pregnancy. About you being the father."
The information lands with unexpected weight. He knows. He stayed. Stayed knowing he's raising another man's child. Remarkable, really.
"And he came to terms with it?"
"He came back. After initially walking out." Her voice softens marginally. "Said the parentage doesn't change anything for him."
Lord Cromwell, one. Hunter Valdren, approximately negative seventeen. The man handles impossible news better than I handle ordering breakfast. Clearly I should take detailed notes on adulting from him.
"Good," I manage through the jealousy burning my throat. "That's good. You deserve someone reliable."
"Are you actually being gracious right now?"
"I'm attempting it. New territory entirely. I may need a map, possibly a guide, definitely a translator for emotions I've never experienced before."
Christina rises from her chair with fluid grace. The movement is deliberate—a queen dismissing an audience. But she pauses before reaching the door, turning back to study me with those storm-grey eyes.
"I don't trust you," she says quietly.
"Sensible. I wouldn't trust me either, frankly."
"But I believe you mean what you're saying. Right now, in this moment, you actually mean it."
"I do. Every word."
"Then we'll see." Her eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my chest ache unexpectedly. "You keep feeding information. You keep protecting us from the shadows. And maybe—maybe—we figure out what role you play in this child's life."
Not forgiveness. Not absolution. Not even close to what I want.
But she nods once before leaving. A single acknowledgment that something has shifted between us. Something small and fragile and conditional as a treaty between hostile nations.
I stay in the empty room long after she's gone. The worn furniture offers no comfort. The silence offers no answers. The afternoon light slants through dusty windows, illuminating precisely nothing useful.
My child grows inside the woman I lost. The woman building a future with another man. The woman who just offered me something I have no right to expect.
A chance. Fragile as glass. Conditional as a ceasefire between warring nations.
It's enough.
For now, it's enough.
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