Chapter 12 A NEW LIFESTYLE

Chapter 12 A NEW LIFESTYLE
I move into the Astor estate, a gilded cage I’m being forced into. The staff, meticulously trained and silent, treat me with a deference that feels more like a reverence for the “Astor Heir” than for me. My new room is on the same floor as Killian’s, a fact that both thrills and terrifies me. The unspoken tension between us is a living, breathing thing, a constant hum in the air.
Luciano is a welcome anchor in the surreal sea of opulence. He moves into a suite on the floor below, insisting on being close to me and the baby. His presence is a source of comfort, a reminder of a normalcy I long for. He brings me flowers, tells me jokes, and listens patiently as I ramble on about my confusing emotions. He is the sun to Killian’s storm, and I find myself basking in his warmth, even as the storm’s distant thunder still calls to me.
“Are you sure you’re comfortable here?” Luciano asked me last night, his eyes filled with genuine concern as he helped me unpack a box of books. “This place… it’s a mausoleum. You don’t have to stay, you know. I can still find us a place. Somewhere with more… life.”
“It’s fine, Luciano,” I say, a small, grateful smile on my lips. “I’m here for the baby. And you’re here. That’s all that matters.” The last part is a truth I hold onto, a lifeline in this strange new world.
The first few days are a blur of appointments with doctors, dieticians, and designers for the nursery. Killian is present for every one. His silence is a heavy presence, but his actions speak volumes. Just last night, I’m curled on the sofa, a wave of nausea washing over me, and he walks in, his posture as rigid as ever. I brace myself for some cutting remark about my weakness.
Instead, he walks directly to the kitchen. I hear the clink of ceramic and the low hum of the kettle. He returns with a mug of steaming herbal tea, a specific blend of ginger and mint that somehow settles my stomach. He hands it to me, his gaze intense, as if he's trying to read my mind. My hand brushes against his, and a jolt of heat shoots up my arm, a rush that has nothing to do with my pregnancy hormones.
"We need to make sure you're comfortable," he says, his voice low and devoid of emotion. It's a simple statement, but the care behind it is anything but. He still holds himself aloof, but I see flashes of a kindness I never knew he possessed, a quiet, almost shy protectiveness.
One evening, after a particularly long day of appointments, I'm restless. Luciano is out on business, and the house feels too large, too silent. I can’t sleep, and the baby, now a noticeable swell beneath my clothes, is a constant reminder of the chaos my life has become. I decide to go to the library for a book, a small act of rebellion against the suffocating perfection of my new life.
As I walk down the long, silent hallway, I see a sliver of light coming from Killian’s room. I hesitate, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I tell myself I’m just curious, but a deeper, more primal part of me is drawn to him. I move closer, the soft glow of the lamp illuminating his silhouette. I see him standing by the window, his back to me, and then I realize, with a jolt that sends a flush of heat through my entire body, that he is naked.
My breath hitches. I should turn and run, but I can’t. I'm mesmerized. The moonlight spilling through the window outlines the powerful contours of his back, the broadness of his shoulders, the lean, muscular lines of his body. He is a work of art, a living sculpture of raw power. My eyes trace the hard planes of his stomach, the narrow trail of hair that disappears beneath the crest of his hips.
And then I see what he's doing. He's touching himself, his hand moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm. A soft, low groan escapes his lips, a sound of such raw, uninhibited pleasure that it sends a shockwave through me. My body responds instantly, a deep, liquid heat pooling between my thighs. My heart hammers against my ribs, my breath caught in my throat. I find myself unable to look away, a voyeur caught in a trance.
My gaze zeroes in on the object of his attention, and my own breath catches. The rumors are true. It is long, thick, and veined, and I feel a dizzying rush of both fear and an unbidden, powerful desire. I have only a fleeting memory of the night in the hotel, a fragmented recollection of a powerful body moving over mine, but the image before me is a tangible, visceral reminder. This is what created the new life inside me. This is the man, the physical force, that altered my destiny.
Suddenly, he stills. His head turns, and his gaze, dark and intense, meets mine through the sliver of the open door. He hasn't stopped what he's doing. He just looks at me, his eyes holding a look of raw possessiveness, of a dangerous, carnal hunger that makes me want to both run and move closer. The silent conversation that passes between us is more intimate, more intense than any words we have ever exchanged. I see a flicker of something I can't name—is it a challenge? An invitation?
The spell breaks when I hear a low, throaty whisper from him, “I see you, Annabella.”
A gasp escapes my lips, and I stumble back, turning and running down the hall as if the hounds of hell are at my heels. I don't stop until I’m inside my room, my door locked behind me. I lean against the cool wood, my body trembling, my heart a wild drum. I slide to the floor, my hands pressed against my burning cheeks.
I am in so much trouble.
Later that night, I hear a soft knock on my door. “Annabella? It’s Killian.” His voice is low, a rumble that vibrates through the door. “Are you alright?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. I just sit there, listening to the sound of his breathing on the other side of the door, the sound of a man who now owns a piece of my soul, a piece I hadn’t even realized was for sale.
“I know you’re in there,” he says, his voice softer now. “We need to talk about what you saw.”
I press my forehead against my knees. “There’s nothing to talk about,” I whisper, but the words are for me alone.
“Annabella,” he says, his voice laced with a newfound vulnerability that makes my heart ache. “Don’t run from this. Don’t run from me.”
I just shake my head, a tear escaping down my cheek. I am terrified of what will happen if I open that door. What he will say. What I will do. And more than anything, I am terrified of the undeniable truth that has been revealed in that single, stolen moment: a part of me, a deep and primal part, wants to be seen by him. I want to be seen by him.