Chapter 194: The Devil’s Woman Takes Tests

"I am not pregnant, Damian."

​The denial was cold, powerful, and absolute. It rang out through the silent office like a gunshot, leaving him frozen on the leather couch.

Damian rose from the leather couch.

​He moved with slow, imposing precision until he towered over her, his shadow swallowing the light between them. His obsidian eyes bore into hers, stripping away every ounce of her defiant bravado.

​"You’re not?" Damian’s voice was a lethal murmur. "Then you won’t mind proving it. Right now."

​Ana took a defensive step back, her jaw tightening. "Don’t be absurd, Damian. This isn’t a boardroom presentation. My cycle has always fluctuated when I’m under pressure. If you’re so paranoid over an algorithm, we can take a test tonight. In private. At home."

​"No," Damian said, the refusal cutting through the air like an iron bolt sliding into place. "We do it here. In the private suite. Within the hour."

​He turned on his heel, strode to his mahogany desk, and hit the executive intercom button.

​"Henry," Damian commanded, not even waiting for an acknowledgment. "Have a discreet courier clear a pharmacy. Bring three separate brands of rapid tests to my office immediately. No questions, no records."

​"Damian, stop!" Ana cried out, marching toward the desk, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Listen to yourself! This is corporate headquarters! You’re letting office gossip turn you into a madman!"

​Damian released the intercom, his broad shoulders squaring as he looked down at her. "I am not waiting six hours while the entire board speculates on the Sterling bloodline. And more importantly—"

​His voice fractured, the cold authority suddenly bleeding into something raw, volatile, and terrifyingly fragile.

​"—you were at Mount Sinai forty-eight hours ago, Anastasia."

​The room went dead still.

​The harsh reality slammed into Ana’s chest, knocking the breath clean out of her lungs.

​"The club," Damian rasped, stepping around the desk until barely an inch separated them. His gaze dropped to her throat, where the faint, fading marks of hives and an emergency intravenous drip had barely healed. "The nut powder slipped into your food. The severe anaphylactic shock. The epinephrine, the heavy steroids, the systemic antihistamines they pumped into your bloodstream to keep your lungs from collapsing."

​His hands gripped her upper arms—not to hurt her, but as if anchoring himself against a nightmare rising from the dark.

​"If that notification is right..." Damian whispered, his knuckles whitening, the agonizing terror in his eyes laid completely bare, "what did all of that poison do to a four-week-old child?"

​Ana’s fiery defiance collapsed.

​A cold, sickening dread rushed through her veins, freezing the blood in her core. The phantom nursery. The sterile white hospital walls from two years ago. The horror of what she had ingested over the weekend, followed by an aggressive cocktail of trauma drugs to save her life.

​Her lips trembled. She looked down at his chest, completely unable to meet his eyes, the absolute certainty of her denial beginning to fracture under the weight of sheer, suffocating terror.

A sharp, hurried knock broke the suffocating silence.

​The heavy door opened just wide enough for Henry to step through, carrying a plain, discreet black matte bag. Before Henry could close the latch, Valerie darted right past his shoulder, slipping inside like a shadow desperate to stay close to the epicenter.

​Henry set the bag on the credenza with a quiet bow and immediately backed out, pulling the door shut behind him.

​Damian’s eyes flared with lethal fury the moment they landed on his sister.

​"Get out, Valerie," Damian growled, his voice vibrating with suppressed violence. "How dare you stand in this room after orchestrating this circus?"

​"Damian, please, just let me—"

​"You hid this from me!" Damian roared, stepping toward her, the mask of corporate composure splintering completely. "You and Mother treated this like a petty household secret while Anastasia was in an emergency ward having epinephrine forced into her heart! There are people tampering with her food in high-end clubs, poison circulating in her veins, and you two kept medical realities from me to play palace games? I will not forgive you for this. Neither you, nor Mother."

​Valerie flinched, shrinking back against the paneled wall, tears of genuine guilt welling in her eyes. She had never heard Damian sound so venomous, so completely severed from family loyalty.

​Ana stood frozen, her chest heaving as she absorbed the revelation. She turned to Valerie, her voice chillingly quiet.

​"Since when?" Ana asked, her hazel eyes narrowing with a bitter, simmering anger. "Since when did you know, Valerie?"

​Valerie swallowed hard, her chin trembling. "Since last night. I had your phone with me. The notification popped up on the lock banner." Valerie pressed her hands together, stepping forward with an earnest, broken sob. "Ana, I am so sorry. I swear I wanted to tell you. I was afray of how Damian would react, and I wanted you to have control over it first. I’m so, so sorry."

​Ana didn’t offer comfort. She simply turned her back on her sister-in-law, a storm of humiliation, confusion, and raw fury twisting her features.

​Crossing to the credenza, Ana snatched the black bag. Without sparing either of them another glance, she marched straight toward the private executive bathroom concealed behind the wood paneling of the corner suite.

​She reached the threshold, her fingers tightening on the brass handle as she pushed the heavy door open, ready to slam the world out.

​A broad, warm hand caught the edge of the wood before the latch could catch.

​Ana spun around, her brow drawn tight in a furious frown, ready to lash out at the intrusion.

​Damian stood right behind her, his tall frame blocking out the light of the office, his dark eyes stripped bare of pride, corporate malice, or control. Only a fierce, desperate dread remained.

​"I’m coming inside with you," Damian said quietly.

​Before she could speak a word of protest, he stepped across the threshold, shutting the door firmly behind them and locking Valerie on the other side.

"Are you serious?" Ana’s voice cracked, sharp with indignation as she backed against the cool marble of the vanity. Her hands clenched tightly around the paper bag. "Do you honestly not trust me that much, Damian? You think I’m going to fake a stick just to lie to you?"

​Damian said nothing.

​He didn’t defend himself. He didn’t offer a biting corporate retort.

​Instead, he closed the narrow space between them in a single, quiet stride. His broad hands rose, his long fingers sliding gently into the soft hair at the base of her neck, tilting her face upward. Before another bitter syllable could tear past her lips, he lowered his head and pressed his mouth to hers.

​The kiss wasn’t demanding. It wasn’t possessive or punishing. It was heartbreakingly tender—a quiet, desperate grounding that shattered every defense she had built since walking into the office.

​Ana’s breath caught in her throat. The heat of his lips against hers broke the dam inside her chest, a single, hot tear spilling over her lashes to trail down her cheek.

​Damian pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against hers, his dark eyes wide and aching with complete understanding. He knew. He knew her anger was a shield, that her cold denials were nothing more than armor against a suffocating nightmare. She wasn’t terrified of him finding out.

​She was terrified of a positive result.

​"Take the tests, Ana," Damian commanded softly, his gravelly rasp stripped of all anger, leaving only an aching plea.

​Ana swallowed hard, stepping back until the edge of the marble dug into her hip. She quickly wiped the moisture from her cheeks with the back of her trembling hand, trying to reclaim whatever scrap of dignity she could muster.

​"Turn around," she said, her voice small, fragile, yet stubbornly defiant. "I’m not peeing while you look at me."

​Damian gave a slow, solemn nod. "Alright."

​Without a word of protest, he pivoted on his heel, facing the closed, polished oak door with his arms crossed over his chest, giving her what little sanctuary he could provide in the tiny room.

​Behind him, the rustle of cardboard packaging tore through the heavy silence. Hands trembling, Ana tore open the wrappers of three different digital tests, the sterile clicks of plastic echoing off the marble tiles as she braced herself to take the most terrifying leap of her life.