Two weeks after leaving the manor, Alex knows exactly which stair on the fourth floor creaks under his weight and which one doesn't. He knows the old woman downstairs waters her plants at six every morning and curses at pigeons like they personally offend her. He knows the café's dishwasher jams if you load the plates too tightly, and he has learned to fix it with the handle of a spoon. Routine settles around him like a thin blanket, not warm enough to comfort but heavy enough to stabilize.
He tells himself that stability is enough.
The nausea, however, does not respect routine.
It starts subtly at first, a sour taste at the back of his throat when he wakes up, a faint dizziness when he stands too quickly. He blames stress because that is easier, and he forces himself to eat toast even when the smell makes his stomach tighten. At the café, he keeps working, chopping vegetables with mechanical precision while sweat gathers at his temples despite the early morning chill.
On the twelfth day, he nearly drops a tray of porcelain cups when the room tilts sharply. One of the waitresses grabs his elbow and laughs nervously, asking if he partied too hard the night before. He shakes his head and mutters something about low blood sugar, but when he steps outside for air, the city feels too bright, too loud, and the memory of certain nights presses into his thoughts with uncomfortable clarity.
He counts again.
Dates. Touch. Silence.
His fingers curl slowly against his abdomen, not protectively, not yet, but thoughtfully. Two weeks. It has been two weeks since he walked out of iron gates and into anonymity, and if his calculations are right, then the timing aligns too perfectly to ignore.
He does not cry. He does not panic.
He finishes his shift.
That evening, he buys a test from a pharmacy three streets away from his apartment because distance feels safer, even though no one is watching him openly. The cashier barely glances at him, and Alex keeps his face neutral while sliding cash across the counter. The small box feels heavier than it should inside his jacket pocket as he walks home.
Inside his apartment, the air feels thinner than usual. He locks the door, washes his hands slowly, and stares at the white plastic stick resting on the edge of the sink. His reflection in the mirror looks calm, almost detached, which unsettles him more than hysteria would have.
"Fine," he murmurs under his breath, as if daring fate to contradict him.
Minutes stretch. Water drips from the tap because he forgot to close it fully. The building pipes groan somewhere behind the wall. He watches the result window without blinking, and when the second line appears, faint but undeniable, his heartbeat does not spike the way he expects.
Instead, everything becomes quiet.
He sits on the edge of the bathtub and exhales slowly, pressing his palm flat against his stomach again, this time deliberately. The reality settles in layers rather than crashing down. He thinks of Antonio's controlled gaze, of Raphael's reckless intensity, and the bitterness that should rise feels strangely distant.
This is not about them.
Not entirely.
The next morning, he makes an appointment at a private clinic recommended discreetly by the café owner, who assumes he needs routine medical clearance for employment documentation. Alex does not correct her. He arrives early, sits in a sterile waiting room beneath soft lighting, and folds his hands neatly in his lap while couples murmur around him. No one looks twice at him, but he feels exposed anyway, as though the knowledge is visible beneath his skin.
When his name is called, he follows the nurse down a narrow corridor that smells faintly of antiseptic and lavender. The doctor, a woman in her late forties with steady eyes, scans his intake form twice before glancing up.
"You're aware this is highly unusual," she says carefully after reviewing the preliminary results.
"I'm aware," Alex replies evenly.
Tests are repeated. Blood drawn. An ultrasound prepared with clinical efficiency. The gel is cold against his abdomen, and he stiffens despite himself. The room hums softly as the machine powers on, and the doctor's expression shifts almost imperceptibly when the image forms on the screen.
She leans closer.
"That's…" she begins, then stops, adjusting the angle. "There is clear gestational development."
Alex turns his head slightly to see, and though the image is grainy and abstract, something inside him tightens and then steadies. It is real. Not theoretical. Not a miscalculation.
"How far along?" he asks quietly.
"Approximately weeks," she answers, still studying the monitor. "But there are anomalies in the structure. I would like to run further genetic analysis. Your physiology indicates the presence of developed uterine tissue, which is rare in male patients without prior surgical intervention."
"I haven't had surgery," Alex says calmly.
The doctor nods slowly. "Then this may be congenital. A dormant condition activated hormonally. I recommend discretion until we understand more."
Discretion.
Alex almost smiles at the irony.
When he leaves the clinic, a small folder of preliminary results tucked under his arm, the city feels different. Not threatening, not welcoming, just altered. Two weeks ago he walked out with nothing but resolve. Now he carries something tangible, something that shifts the balance of power in ways the Rodrigo estate cannot yet imagine.
He does not call them.
He does not inform anyone, they would freak out if he does anyway and one thing that he would like to avoid in the midst of all these was attention.
Instead, he walks home at an unhurried pace, climbs the four flights of stairs, and locks his door behind him before resting his back against it. His hand drifts to his abdomen again, slower this time, thoughtful rather than stunned, even though shock threatened to erode his reasoning.
There he made a decision, he would keep the baby no matter the odds even though the situation was highly irritating.
Two weeks ago, he left the traumatic mansion.
Now, whether they know it or not, he holds the future of their empire inside his body. And he wasn't sure whose baby it was.