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.
Sly stopped at the door, his hand still resting on the frame. He hadn't meant to say anything else. He should have left it there—with honesty, with restraint.
But the thought had already clawed its way up his chest.
"There's still something you haven't answered," he said without turning around.
Ramona's stomach tightened. "What?"
He faced her slowly, his expression guarded, sharp again. "The man from the club."
The room shifted.
"You said you know who the pregnancy belongs to," Sly continued. "So say it. Tell me it's not him."
Ramona's lips parted, then closed. The hesitation lasted only a second—but it was enough.
Sly let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. "There it is."
"It's not that simple," she said quickly. "You're twisting this."
"No," he snapped, anger flaring hot and sudden. "What's simple is that every time I try to move forward, he's right there—between us."
She stepped toward him. "I told you, I know who the pregnancy is for."
"And you expect me to trust that?" His voice rose despite himself. "After I walked into my worst memory and watched you choose someone else?"
The old fury rushed back, loud and merciless. His heart pounded—not with grief this time, but with a bitter clarity.
"You see?" he said. "This is what I meant. This is the chaos I was afraid of. If I had married you when you asked, this—this—would be my life."
"That's not fair," Ramona whispered.
"Neither was almost dying because I couldn't stop loving you," he replied.
Silence cracked open between them. Ramona felt the weight of it press into her chest, into the life growing inside her.
Sly shook his head, stepping back. "I can't do this tonight. I can't keep bleeding just because we almost healed."
He pulled out his phone, fingers steady despite the storm inside him. "I'm ordering a ride."
She looked at him, startled.
"I'm not driving angry again," he said quietly. "I learned that lesson the hard way."
The words cut deeper than shouting ever could.
Within minutes, headlights swept across the mansion gates. Sly walked toward the door, then paused one last time.
"When you're ready to tell the whole truth," he said without looking back, "not the version that hurts you least—call me."
The door closed.
Ramona stood alone in the vast living room, the echo of his footsteps fading into silence. She lowered herself onto the couch, one hand shaking as it rested on her stomach.
For the first time, she understood something terrifying:
This wasn't just about love anymore.
It was about truth—and whether it would come in time to save anything at all.
Ramona spent the night in the mansion alone, the echo of Sly's departure still heavy in the grand halls. She couldn't sleep. She couldn't stop thinking about the words he had said, the hurt etched into his face, and the way his anger had flared so suddenly, so completely.
By morning, the reality was unavoidable. She had to answer him. She had to stop hiding—not just from Sly, but from herself.
She called the clinic, requesting a full paternity confirmation. She needed facts, not fear. She needed proof, because hope and denial had already nearly destroyed everything.
Hours later, sitting in the sterile white office, the nurse handed her the results. Hands trembling, she unfolded the paper.
The truth was… something she hadn't expected.
The pregnancy was hers.
Completely hers. Not the club man's. Not a twist of chance. Her body, after all these years of believing it was broken, had somehow defied every prediction. The life inside her wasn't a consequence of rebellion, or revenge, or a mistake—it was real, undeniable, and waiting.
Ramona's breath caught. Relief, disbelief, and fear crashed together in one wave. She sat frozen, staring at the results, realizing for the first time she could finally face Sly with honesty.
She didn't know if he would believe her at first—or if he would ever forgive her for the lies, for the rebellion, for the nights he'd never forget. But she knew she had to try.
When Sly arrived at her mansion later that evening—having calmed, having processed, having spent hours alone in thought—she met him at the door.
"I know you're angry," she said quietly, "and you have every right to be. But I need you to hear me… I am carrying our child. No one else."
He looked at her, eyes sharp and unreadable. Silence stretched. His jaw tightened.
"Why should I believe that?" he asked finally, voice low, steady, dangerous.
She handed him the papers. "Because this is the truth. The tests confirm it."
Sly took them slowly, reading every line. The color left his face, replaced by a mix of shock, disbelief, and… cautious hope.
"You're… telling the truth?" he whispered.
"I am," Ramona said. "I've never lied about this."
He looked up from the papers, his eyes meeting hers. For a long moment, the space between them held everything unspoken—the anger, the betrayal, the months of recovery, and the fragile possibility of a future.
Then he let out a long breath. "So… it's really us."
"Yes," she whispered. "It's us."
And for the first time since the rebellion began, the tension that had built for months began to crack—small, fragile, but real.
It didn't erase the past. It didn't erase the hurt. But it offered a sliver of something neither of them had allowed themselves to hope for: a chance to rebuild, together, on truth.