Bellamy POV
“You’re pregnant?” Max’s voice snapped so fast it slapped the air.
I blinked, heart racing, watching the ultrasound photo tremble slightly in his hand.
“Is this real?” he barked.
I stared at him. My throat was dry. My fists clenched. “That’s none of your business.”
His eyes flared. “You work for me, Bellamy. Everything you do is my business.”
My jaw tightened. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me!” he shouted. “Who’s the father?!”
I scoffed, taking a step back. “Are you serious right now?”
“Yes, I asked—who is the father?!” Max demanded, his voice rising, loud enough for the hallway to probably hear.
My chest burned. “It’s you.”
He froze. Blinked. “What?”
“It’s you, Max.”
There was a beat. Two seconds of stunned silence.
Then—laughter. Ugly, sarcastic laughter. “Me? Are you on crack, Bellamy?” He stepped forward, shaking the ultrasound at me. “We haven’t even fucked! Did my sperm Bluetooth connect with your egg or something?!”
I flinched, my face burning with rage. “You—what?!”
He threw his arms up. “You’re blaming this on me when we never even slept together! You’re losing it.”
“Yes, we did!” I shouted, stepping up to him. “That night in the bar. We danced. We drank. We ended up in a motel and you—”
“I never took you to a motel, Bellamy!” Max yelled. “I never even left the bar with you. That wasn’t me!”
I opened my mouth to argue—but then froze. My heart dropped. My breath hitched. My mind screamed. No. No, no, no. It wasn’t him?
But then—how—
“It wasn’t him,” a voice said from behind me. I spun. Tristan stood in the doorway. His face pale. His eyes dark.
“It was me,” he said softly.