Morning came without relief. Ramona hadn't slept; she had only drifted between memories and dread. The mansion felt colder in daylight, stripped of the shadows that had at least hidden her fear.
She dressed without care and drove herself to the hospital—this time not for Sly, but for answers. The sterile smell hit her the moment she stepped inside, dragging her backward through years she had spent trying to forget.
Tests were run quietly. Blood drawn. An ultrasound scheduled. The waiting room clock ticked too loudly, each second tightening the knot in her chest.
When the doctor finally returned, his expression wasn't confusion—it was certainty.
"You're pregnant," he said plainly. "Early stages, but there's no doubt."
Ramona's breath caught. "That's not possible," she whispered. "I was told I couldn't have children."
The doctor nodded slowly. "Infertility diagnoses—especially those made after trauma—aren't always absolute. Bodies heal in ways medicine can't always predict. Rare doesn't mean impossible."
Rare.
Impossible.
Both words shattered at once.
She left the hospital numb, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. By the time she reached the mansion again, there was no avoiding it anymore. This wasn't a mistake. This wasn't punishment. This was real—and it demanded truth.
That evening, she called Sly.
"I need to talk to you," she said quietly. "Not to argue. Not to explain myself away. I need you to listen."
They met at the edge of the city, somewhere neutral, somewhere neither of them could claim as emotional territory. Sly looked different—stronger, healed, but guarded in a way that made her chest ache.
She didn't ease into it. She didn't soften the blow.
"I know who the pregnancy is for," she said. "And I need you to know something about me… something I never told anyone."
He didn't interrupt. He just watched her, eyes steady.
"When I was a child," she continued, voice shaking, "I was assaulted. I ended up in the hospital. The doctors said the damage might mean I'd never have children. I believed them. I built my life around that belief."
Silence stretched between them—heavy, fragile.
"So when I found out I was pregnant," she whispered, "I didn't just panic. I felt like my entire past came back to demand answers."
Sly exhaled slowly. He looked away, then back at her. "Why tell me now?"
"Because secrets already destroyed us once," Ramona said. "I won't let another one finish the job."
He didn't reach for her. He didn't pull away either.
"This doesn't fix what happened," he said finally. "But… I hear you."
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't acceptance.
But it was the first crack of light through something that had been sealed shut for a long time.
And still—hovering beneath everything—was the truth neither of them could escape:
This child was about to change everything again.
Whether they were ready or not.
They didn't plan to argue. It just happened—the way it always did when truth sat too long between two people who loved each other badly.
They were standing in Ramona's living room, distance measured carefully between them, when Sly finally spoke the thought he had been holding back.
"This," he said, gesturing vaguely between them, "this is exactly why I said no back then."
Ramona stiffened. "Said no to what?"
"To marrying you after one month," he replied, his voice calm but edged with restraint. "You wanted a lifetime commitment before we even understood each other."
Her eyes flashed. "I wanted security. I wanted certainty."
"And I wanted time," Sly shot back. "Time to know who we were when things got hard. Time to see how you handled disappointment."
She laughed bitterly. "So this is my punishment for wanting to be chosen?"
"No," he said quickly. "This is me realizing I wasn't wrong."
The words landed harder than he intended. He took a breath, trying to rein himself in, but the dam had cracked.
"If I had married you that early," he continued, "this is what we'd be dealing with right now. Impulses. Secrets. Decisions made out of fear instead of patience."
Ramona's hands curled into fists. "You think you're clean in this?"
"I'm not saying I'm perfect," he replied. "But I didn't run. I didn't break us because I didn't get my way."
That hurt. She felt it immediately.
"You refused me," she said quietly. "You made me feel like I wasn't enough to choose."
Sly's voice softened, but his resolve didn't. "I didn't refuse you. I refused rushing into something neither of us was ready to protect."
Silence filled the room, thick and unforgiving.
"So now you get to stand there," Ramona said, tears burning, "and act like my worst moment proves you right?"
"No," he said. "I'm saying it proves how dangerous it is when love is built on pressure instead of understanding."
She turned away from him, her hand instinctively finding her stomach. For the first time, the pregnancy felt less like a miracle and more like a fault line splitting beneath her feet.
"And what about now?" she asked. "What does this prove to you now?"
Sly didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice was quiet—almost defeated.
"That wanting something badly doesn't make it safe. And loving someone doesn't mean you're ready to be their forever."
Ramona closed her eyes.
Because deep down, she knew—that first argument, the one that sent her running into rebellion, hadn't been about marriage at all.
It had been about fear.
And neither of them had known how to say that without hurting the other.
The argument lingered long after the words stopped. Ramona stood by the window, watching the city lights flicker like choices she could no longer outrun. For the first time, she didn't feel the urge to defend herself. She felt tired—of proving, of pushing, of pretending fear was passion.
"You think I wanted to rush you because I'm reckless," she said quietly, her back still turned to him. "But that's not the truth."
Sly didn't interrupt. He'd learned that sometimes silence was the only way honesty could surface.
"I wanted marriage because I was terrified," she continued. "Terrified you'd wake up one day and realize I wasn't worth staying for." She swallowed. "I thought if you chose me publicly, legally, permanently… then I'd be safe."
Sly's chest tightened. He hadn't expected that.
"You never told me that," he said.
"I didn't know how," Ramona replied. "I only knew how to demand, not explain." She turned to face him then, eyes wet but steady. "Rejection feels different when you already believe you're temporary."
The words settled between them, heavy and fragile.
Sly ran a hand over his face. "And I thought saying no meant I was being responsible. That I was protecting us." He exhaled slowly. "But maybe I was also protecting myself—from failing, from committing to something I couldn't control."
They stood there, two people finally naming fears they had used as weapons instead of warnings.
"I don't trust myself with you," Sly admitted quietly. "Not because I don't care—but because when things fall apart, they fall apart completely." His leg ached faintly, like a ghost reminding him of the cost.
Ramona nodded. "And I don't trust love unless it's locked in place."
Silence again—but this time, it wasn't hostile. It was reflective.
"So what happens now?" she asked.
Sly looked at her for a long moment. The woman he loved. The woman who had hurt him. The woman carrying a truth neither of them had planned for.
"Now," he said carefully, "we stop trying to save a relationship that keeps bleeding—and start figuring out whether we can become people who don't destroy each other."
Tears slid down Ramona's cheeks, but she didn't wipe them away. "And the baby?"
Sly's gaze dropped briefly to her stomach, then returned to her face. "The baby deserves honesty. Stability. Not two scared people clinging to each other because they're afraid to be alone."
It wasn't a goodbye.
But it wasn't reconciliation either.
It was something harder: a pause. A choice to step back before everything collapsed again.
As Sly walked toward the door, he stopped. "I don't regret not marrying you back then," he said gently. "But I do regret that we never learned how to hear each other without hurting."
The door closed softly behind him.
Ramona remained by the window, one hand over her heart, the other resting on the life growing inside her—finally understanding that love demanded more than urgency.
It demanded courage.