Chapter 69 The Deleted Confession
By the time I was discharged from the hospital the next morning, Damian had turned into a robot.
A polite, professional, maddening robot.
He drove me home in complete silence—well, not silence, the man had the audacity to turn on the traffic updates radio station—then dropped me off with a stiff “Rest.”
No hug.
No comforting hand.
Not even a smile.
He didn’t even wait to see if I made it inside the building before driving off.
The next day at work was worse.
Much worse.
I spotted him the second I stepped into the office—standing by the glass panels with two managers, suit immaculate, posture perfect, expression unreadable.
When he saw me… he froze.
Just for a second.
Just enough for me to see the crack.
Then he straightened and gave me a nod. A literal nod. Like he was greeting a board member, not a woman whose unconscious body he carried into the ER less than 24 hours ago.
“Good morning,” he said stiffly.
“Morning,” I muttered, glaring.
He didn’t wait for anything else. He just turned and continued with his meeting like I wasn’t even there.
I stared at him for a long, irritated moment.
Oh, so that’s how it was going to be?
He finds out I’m pregnant—faints, panics, plays the caring hero—and NOW he’s suddenly cold?
Unbelievable.
By 10 a.m., I was in his office handing him the projections report, and he wouldn’t even look me in the eye.
“Just leave it on the desk,” he said.
I blinked. “I literally just walked in.”
“Mhm.”
Tap-tap-tap.
He pretended to check an email.
I crossed my arms. “You’re avoiding me.”
“No, I’m working.”
“You’re working harder to avoid me.”
His jaw tightened. “Elena. Please.”
Please?
I hated how that one word made something inside me twist.
“If this is about yesterday,” I began—
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“It’s… complicated,” he said quietly.
He didn’t look up. Not once.
Something in his voice sounded off—hurt, almost—but I couldn’t figure out why.
Why was he acting like I betrayed him?
Why was HE pulling away when HE still didn’t know the baby was his?
By noon, I was one forehead vein away from throwing staplers.
By 4 p.m., I was ready to resign.
By 8 p.m., I was home, pacing my bedroom with my phone clutched like a lifeline.
Enough.
Enough stupid misunderstandings.
Enough cold shoulders.
Enough guessing.
I sat on the bed, inhaled, and typed the message slowly, carefully, deliberately.
Elena: Damian, we need to talk. I tried to say this yesterday but you weren’t hearing me. The pregnancy… it’s yours. Not Lucas’s. Yours.
I hovered over the send button for a second.
My heart was doing Olympic gymnastics.
Then I hit send.
And immediately threw my phone across the bed like it was radioactive.
My chest lifted and dropped with shaky breaths. I felt… relieved. Terrified. Exposed. But relieved.
Finally.
Finally, the truth was out.
His reply should come in seconds. Minutes at worst. Surely he’d respond immediately. Surely he’d—
My phone stayed silent.
Ten minutes.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Still nothing.
I refreshed the chat like it would magically update faster if I glared at it.
Nothing.
I checked if I even had network.
Full bars.
I waited some more, pacing, sitting down, standing up, lying face-down in my pillow, then checking again.
Still nothing.
My stomach twisted.
Maybe he was driving.
Maybe he was in a meeting.
Maybe he hadn’t seen it yet.
Or maybe…
Maybe he was ignoring it.
The thought hit like ice water down my spine.
He wouldn’t.
He couldn’t.
Damian wasn’t that kind of person—
Except… for the last 24 hours, he was exactly that kind of person.
Cold.
Distant.
Silent.
I rubbed my hands over my face, groaning into my palms.
“Please answer,” I whispered at my phone like an idiot.
One hour passed.
Then two.
Then three.
And still nothing.
By midnight, my chest hurt from holding so much tension.
I checked again.
No reply.
Fine.
Maybe he needed time.
Maybe he was overwhelmed.
Maybe he—
My phone vibrated.
My heart jumped so hard I nearly choked.
But the screen only said:
Battery low — 10%
I threw myself back onto the bed with a frustrated groan.
I was spiraling so deeply that I didn’t even consider the one thing—the one impossibly cruel thing—that I should have.
I didn’t know that earlier that evening…
At that exact moment I sent the message…
Damian wasn’t the one holding his phone.
Rachael was.
She had walked into his office to confirm details for an event, saw his phone buzzing on the desk, and—because she was helping him finalize something on his emails—she clicked the notification automatically.
She saw my name.
She saw the first line.
And she opened the message.
She read every word.
Her hands began shaking.
Her mouth dropped open.
Her heart pounded so loud she could hear it in her ears.
Then…
Before she even realized what she was doing…
She swiped left.
Delete.
Message gone.
No trace.
No notification.
No evidence.
She stood there staring at the empty chat screen, breathing fast, mind racing with panic and denial and something sharp, possessive, ugly.
Then she locked Damian’s phone…
And placed it back exactly where she found it.
When Damian returned to his desk two minutes later, he didn’t notice anything wrong. Nothing missing. Nothing out of place.
He worked.
Rachael left.
And I…
…sat alone in my apartment…
waiting for a reply that would never come.