Chapter 49 49.

Chapter 49 49.
Chapter 49: Ashley’s POV

​The heavy, humid air of the basement parking lot hit me the second we stepped out of the elevator lobby, but it did nothing to cool the erratic, suffocating panic rising in my chest.

​"Ashley, wait."

​Marcus’s voice cut through the dim, concrete space, but I didn't stop. I kept walking, my sandals clicking sharply against the floor as I headed straight toward his waiting sedan.

But I wasn't trying to get in anymore.

I was just trying to outrun the last twenty minutes.

​Before I could reach the passenger door, Marcus caught up, his long strides easily closing the distance. His hand wrapped gently but firmly around wrist.

​"Let go of me, Marcus," I breathed.

​The composure I had managed to maintain in the elevator was gone. I was confused—so deeply, intensely confused that it felt like a physical ache right behind my eyes.

I looked up at him.

​"You aren't thinking straight," I said, my voice shaking as I pulled my wrist from his grip. "This isn't a temporary corporate strategy. This is a human being. This is a child. Why on earth do you want to be involved in this?"

​Marcus opened his mouth to reply, his usual calculated defenses shifting into place, but I cut him off before he could start talking about family pressure again.

​"Don't give me that corporate garbage about your grandfather," I hissed. "You are Marcus Bryson. You have a beautiful, flawless, peaceful life. You have an empire. Your world is completely structured, entirely under your control, and entirely far away from the messy, exhausting chaos of a pregnancy."

​I stepped closer, staring into his dark, unreadable eyes, desperate to make him understand the reality of what he was doing.

​"You told me once—remember? You told me yourself that if you ever had a child, it would only be through IVF, under a strict legal contract, because you don't do emotional commitment. You don't do complications. So why are you doing this now? Why are you trying to anchor yourself to this baby? To me?"

​The silence that followed was heavy.

I waited for him to lay out a flawless, logical counterargument that would put me in my place.

​But it never came.

​Marcus just stood there, his jaw tight, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

For the first time since the day I met him, the brilliant, calculated Marcus Bryson looked entirely, completely lost.

​He didn't have an answer.

He couldn't give me one because he didn't even know it himself.

​A heavy, bitter wave of disappointment washed over me. He was just as confused as I was.

He was running on some bizarre, uncharacteristic impulse he couldn't even define, and I couldn't afford to be dragged down into his identity crisis.

Not with what was actually at stake.

​"Unbelievable," I whispered, taking a step back from him.

​"Ashley—"

​"No, Marcus. Don't." I shook my head, gripping my purse tightly against my side. "If you can't even explain your own madness to yourself, don't expect me to play along with it."

​I turned my back on him, bypassing his luxury sedan entirely, and began walking toward the main exit of the garage to hail a public cab.

He didn't follow me this time.

And as I glanced back one last time before stepping out into the bright sun, I saw him still standing by his car.

The ride back to Orwell Manor in a public taxi was a blur of passing Manila gridlock and suffocating heat.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the exact moment Marcus’s calculated composure cracked in the dim light of that parking lot.

​He doesn't know.

The realization was terrifying.

Marcus Bryson never did anything without a five-step contingency plan, yet he was diving headfirst into a fake pregnancy scandal with absolutely no exit strategy.

​When the cab finally pulled up to the estate's iron gates, I paid the driver and practically dragged myself out.

Walking up the gravel driveway, my strappy sandals were punishing me for my stubbornness.

All I wanted was to lock myself in my bedroom and pretend today had never happened.

​Instead, as I stepped onto the wide veranda, Nash was there.

​He was standing by the stone balustrade, a cup of black coffee in hand, looking every bit the protective, imposing figure he always was.

​"Ashley," Nash said, setting his cup down on a nearby side table. He took a few steps toward me. "You're back early. Where’s Mr. Bryson? Simone told me he drove you to the clinic."

​"He did," I said while bypassing him toward the heavy oak front doors. "I just... decided to take a cab back."

​Nash didn't move from his spot, but his tone dropped into that low, dangerously quiet register that meant he was fully alert. "You took a cab from the medical center? Why? Did something happen with the appointment? Is the baby—"

​"The baby is perfectly fine, Nash," I interrupted quickly. I let out a tired breath, one hand rest on the curve of my stomach. "The ultrasound went great. He's healthy. He's growing exactly the way he's supposed to."

​Nash's posture relaxed significantly at the word he, a brief, genuine warmth softening his hard features. "A boy. Simone is going to lose her mind."

​"Yeah," I murmured, a faint, bittersweet smile touching my lips. "She will."

​"Then what happened?" Nash pushed. "If the appointment went well, why did you leave Bryson at the hospital? Did he say something to you?"

​I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. I couldn't tell him.

How could I possibly explain to Nash that Marcus Bryson thought I was a vulnerable, abandoned single mother?

How could I tell him that Marcus’s grandfather now thinks this baby is the future of the Bryson empire because Marcus wanted a temporary shield against his family's corporate pressure?

​The web of lies was getting too thick, too tangled, and I was right at the center of it.

​"We just had a disagreement," I lied smoothly, offering a dismissive wave of my hand. "You know how he is. He tries to manage everything like a board meeting, and I don't like being managed."

​Nash studied my face, clearly sensing that I was withholding the full story. But before he could interrogate me further, the sound of light footsteps echoed from the hallway.

​"Ashley! You're back!" she called out, her face instantly lighting up with an elegant, radiant smile that made her look healthier than she had in weeks. "Tell me everything. Did you get the pictures? Is it a little girl or a little boy?"

​"It's a boy, Simone," I said, forcing the anxiety out of my voice as I walked into her open arms, leaving the thought of Marcus Bryson outside where it belonged. "You're having a son."