Chapter 195: The Devil’s Cage
"I do not want to get pregnant, Damian! I do not want to get pregnant by you!"
The memory struck him like cold iron, echoing through the hollow chambers of his mind with terrifying clarity. He could still see the wild, wounded fire in her eyes the night she threw those words at him—the absolute finality in her voice, carving a chasm between them that neither time nor silence had ever truly healed.
Damian stood motionless before the towering glass window of his executive suite, his silhouette rigid against the sprawling Manhattan skyline below. His hands were shoved deep into his trouser pockets, his knuckles clenched so hard that the fabric strained over them.
Behind him, the vast office remained trapped in a fragile, suffocating hush.
Anastasia sat on the edge of the leather sofa, her hands clasped tightly in her lap to conceal the uncontrollable tremor vibrating through her fingers. Her face was pale, stripped of color, her gaze locked on the geometric pattern of the wool rug beneath her feet. Beside her sat Valerie, guilt-ridden, hovering close enough to offer comfort yet too afraid of Damian’s wrath to utter a single syllable.
Behind the closed door of the private executive bath, three stark white plastic sticks lay flat across the polished marble counter.
Ten minutes.
That was what the instructions demanded. Ten excruciating, endless minutes for the chemical strips to drink in the truth, while the digital hourglass slowly ticked down to either their salvation or their absolute undoing.
The ten-minute timer chimed from the screen on Damian’s desk, the low electronic chime cutting through the silence like a scalpel.
Damian didn’t hesitate. He turned away from the glass expanse and strode into the private bath, his boots heavy against the marble floor.
Anastasia rose to her feet on trembling legs, her breath catching tight in her throat as Valerie followed half a step behind, wringing her hands in anxious dread. The two women reached the doorway, clustering at the threshold as Damian stopped before the long vanity.
Lined up in a neat row across the black stone counter were the three tests.
Damian looked down, his jaw clenched tight. With steady, deliberate hands, he reached for the first plastic stick. A crisp, single pink line stared back.
Negative.
He picked up the second—a digital display that flickered faintly before settling into bold, unmistakable letters: NOT PREGNANT.
Anastasia let out a long, ragged exhale she felt she’d been holding for a lifetime. Her shoulders slumped, a deep, dizzying wave of relief washing over her face as she reached out to steady herself against the doorframe. The knot in her ribs uncoiled. The ghost of the poison, the epinephrine, the panic of the boardroom rumors—it felt like a phantom threat evaporating into thin air.
"Thank God," Ana whispered, pressing a trembling hand over her chest, the color finally returning to her lips.
Valerie stepped closer, leaning over her brother’s shoulder to peer at the counter. But as her eyes flicked to Damian’s face, the brief spark of hope died in her throat.
Damian hadn’t moved.
His fingers were frozen around the third test, his knuckles stark white. His tall frame stood dead-still, the blood draining completely from his features until he looked like carved granite.
"Damian?" Valerie asked, her voice faltering as an icy chill crept down her spine. "What happened? What is it?"
Damian didn’t speak. He slowly turned around, his dark, obsidian eyes fixing onto Anastasia with a look so hollow, so shattered and terrifyingly still that her breath seized in her throat once more.
He extended his arm, holding the third test flat between his fingers, tilting the backlit digital window toward the two women.
There was no ambiguity. No faint, faded ghost line to question.
Staring back at them in stark, high-contrast digital ink was a single, undeniable word:
PREGNANT.
Anastasia stood entirely speechless.
The sterile white plastic stick seemed to burn through the air, the bold digital lettering pinning her to the floor. Her mind spun in a dizzying spiral, tumbling straight into the cruel reality of the contract she had been forced to sign. The predatory clause. The trap. If she carried his child, the separation was revoked, and she would have to marry him all over again. Bound forever to a man who commanded her world, but held no love for her in his heart.
"Oh my god," Valerie whispered, her hand trembling as she backed out of the doorway. "I’m... I’m going to call Mom. She needs to know."
Damian didn’t stop his sister. He barely seemed to notice her scurry into the main office to reach for her phone.
His obsidian eyes remained locked on the tiny digital screen resting flat against his palm. His tall frame was unyielding, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that sounded deafening in the quiet bathroom.
"This changes everything."
Ana slowly lifted her gaze to his face.
She searched every harsh angle of his chiseled jaw, the dark intensity of his eyes, the set of his mouth—desperately hunting for a single flicker of genuine emotion. A sliver of warmth. Relief. Joy. Vulnerability.
There was nothing.
Only a cold, terrifying calculation, as if he were already locking the chains around her life and sealing the vault shut.
A sudden, suffocating tightness seized her chest. Her throat closed up, the air in the private suite turning thick and impossible to swallow. A sharp, burning ache radiated beneath her ribs, making it violently hard to breathe.
Damian noticed the sudden tremor in her posture immediately.
He dropped the test onto the counter, closed the small distance between them, and pulled her tightly against his broad chest. One large, heavy arm wrapped around her waist while his other hand came up, patting her back in firm, steady strokes meant to calm her down.
"Breathe, Anastasia," he murmured against her hairline. "Just breathe."
The touch that had once offered a fleeting shelter now felt unbearable. His solid chest was an unyielding wall. His broad arms were iron bars. Suddenly, his proximity felt like a suffocating cage from which she desperately needed to break free. Every inch of him pressing into her robbed the room of air, pressing down on her lungs until the panic threatened to swallow her whole.
"I can’t... I can’t do this, Damian," Ana gasped, her hands coming up against his lapels, feebly trying to wedge space between them as the panic rose wildly within her.
Damian froze. His hand stilled on her back, his body turning rigid.
"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
Ana shook her head frantically, unable to bear the heat of his gaze or the suffocating weight of the walls closing in around her.
"I want to go back to your house," she choked out, her voice trembling with raw, desperate strain. "I can’t... I can’t think straight here."
Damian didn’t argue. He didn’t offer reassurances or question her sudden retreat.
Instead, he slipped off his heavy charcoal suit jacket in one fluid, practiced motion. Stepping into her space, he draped the wool over her trembling shoulders. It was warm, carrying the distinct scent of cedarwood and black pepper, but to Anastasia, the fabric felt as heavy and binding as lead chains.
He didn’t let her linger. Taking her firmly by the elbow, Damian steered her out of the private bathroom and bypassed the main executive suite entirely. Valerie was still on the phone near the desk, her voice hushed and frantic, but Damian ignored his sister completely. He swiped an encrypted keycard against a discreet wall panel, guiding Ana straight into the private executive elevator that bypassed the main floors and descended directly to the subterranean parking garage.
The descent was soundless and suffocating.
Down in the dim concrete bay, Damian’s midnight-black Maybach was already idling, the exhaust purring softly in the quiet. Henry was nowhere to be seen; Damian opened the heavy passenger door himself, his palm resting flat against the top of the frame as he waited for her to slide into the leather interior.
The moment she was inside, he shut the door with a dull, airtight thud.
Damian rounded the hood, slipped into the driver’s seat, and put the car into gear. The vehicle glided out of the underground complex and merged into the dense Manhattan grid, slicing through the late afternoon traffic toward the Upper East Side.
Inside the cabin, the silence was absolute.
Ana sat pressed against the passenger door, her hands clenched in her lap beneath the folds of his oversized jacket. Her chest still felt painfully tight, every breath a shallow struggle against the invisible snare tightening around her future.
A warm, calloused hand reached across the center console.
Damian didn’t ask for permission. His long fingers slid over hers, wrapping around her knuckles and locking them down against the leather seat with an unyielding, possessive grip.
Ana flinched at the contact. She tried to pull her hand back, her fingers flexing against his hold, but his grip only tightened in response, pinning her firmly in place.
"Don’t," Ana whispered, staring straight out the tinted window at the passing gray stone facades. "Damian, please. Just don’t."