Lucas' POV
Was she a virgin?
That question haunted me since our first night together. I had come back from work angry that night. I wasn't in the mood to be gentle or patient so I roughly had my way with her, even when I felt an initial resistance, I had ignored it, forcefully pushing my way through.
It wasn't until later, when I saw the bloodstain on the sheets, that it all clicked.
I don't do virgins. I never have. Virgins come with complications—attachments, expectations, and emotions I'm unwilling to entertain. They're messy, and I don't like messy. It's better when everything is clear-cut, with no strings, no lingering feelings.
The fact that she had been one clawed at me, and the guilt ate me up. I tried to ignore it, but it crept into my thoughts, refusing to go away.
When I saw the way she limped into my study, trying desperately to mask her pain, it hit me just how brutal I had been.
I had called her to confirm, even though I already knew the answer. When she admitted it—her voice trembling, laced with anger I didn't blame her for—it struck something deep within me. Guilt. And I wasn't used to guilt.
As cold and indifferent as I may be, I knew no woman deserved to experience a first time like that.
I still felt guilty, though I did my best to bury it. I told myself she had known what she was signing up for. She wasn't here for love or romance; she was here for duty, just like I was. And besides, I hadn't known she was a virgin. That excuse played on repeat in my mind, but it didn't relieve me of what I felt.
There was something about her—something I couldn't quite define—that lingered long after she left the room. Her beauty was undeniable, of course. But it wasn't just that. She tugged at my heart and made me self reflect a lot.
Over the next few nights, I found myself being unintentionally gentler with her. It wasn't a conscious choice, at least not at first. But the memory of that first night, the pain I had caused her, was always in the back of my mind. And as much as I hated to admit it, I didn't want to hurt her like that again.
Her reactions fascinated me. The way her lips parted when I touched her. The soft gasps she tried to suppress. The way her body responded, even when I could tell she was trying to fight it.
I told myself it was just her body I was drawn to. That it was purely physical. But the lie didn't hold up, especially when I realized I was finding excuses to see her more often. To have her in my bed, to hear her voice, to watch the way her eyes would widen slightly whenever I entered the room.
Outside of the bed room, I kept my distance. I remained cold, indifferent, determined not to let her get too close. I couldn't afford to let her unravel me. But inside, I craved her in ways I couldn't explain.
Weeks later, Olivia came to me with her symptoms. Her voice was hesitant, almost fearful, and I could see the tension in her body as she spoke. She thought she might be pregnant.
I was elated. We were getting somewhere after weeks of trying– not like I was complaining. I picked up the phone and ordered Julian to bring in my personal doctor.
It felt like years had gone by as I waited eagerly for the results. I couldn't focus on any other thing and eagerly wished for the results to be positive.
A part of me wanted it to be negative as it would give me more time with Olivia. A positive result would mean our nights together would be put to an end and I strangely felt upset.
When the doctor finally confirmed it, a strange mix of emotions surged within me—relief, pride, joy. Finally, some results. My heir.
Now that Olivia was pregnant, I began spending more time at home than in the office. I wanted to ensure her pregnancy went smoothly, to guarantee that nothing would jeopardize the health of my heir. But deep down, I knew the real reason.
I have many people employed to ensure the safety of my child; I didn't have to do it myself. But…
I wanted to be near her.
She fascinated me more and more each day. Even as her belly began to swell with the life of my child growing inside her, she carried herself with a quiet dignity that I couldn't help but admire. She was stronger than I had given her credit for, and it made me want her all the more.
The feelings I was developing for her terrified me. I wasn't supposed to feel this way. I had built walls around myself for a reason, convinced that attachment was a weakness I couldn't afford. I was afraid to put a label on what I was feeling. I was afraid it was love. Yet Olivia was continually breaking through those walls without even trying.
Every time I saw her, my resolve wavered. I told myself to stop, to pull back, to keep my distance. But it was impossible. She had become an inescapable part of my world, and I wasn't sure I even wanted to escape anymore.
Ten Months Later
The day finally arrived. Olivia went into labor. She was rushed to the hospital, and I followed close behind, my heart pounding in a way it hadn't in years.
I stayed outside the delivery room, pacing back and forth, my mind racing. I wasn't a man prone to fear, but in that moment, I was terrified.
What if something went wrong? What if I lost her? Or the baby?
The minutes felt like hours. Every muffled sound from behind the doors made my chest tighten. I hated feeling so powerless.
Finally, the door opened, and the doctor stepped out. His face was calm, reassuring.
"It's a boy," he said with a small smile.
Relief washed over me, followed by a surge of pride and joy. My son. My heir. But then again, it now meant that the deal with Olivia was over. We had to go our separate ways.