Chapter 33

Louis's Pov.

The word "pregnant" hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. It was as if the bombshell of the press conference had detonated, leaving behind a smoldering crater of shock and a completely new threat.

"Is the baby mine?" I blurted out, the question tumbling out before I could fully comprehend its implications.

Claire's emerald eyes blazed with a fury that eclipsed the vulnerability of a moment ago. "Why would you even ask that?" she spat, her voice tight with a mixture of hurt and anger. "Who else would it be?”

Shame burned in my gut. It wasn't a question I should have asked, but the memory of her flirtations in Paris, the way men seemed to gravitate towards her, and the way she embraced it gnawed at my already strained trust.

"I'm not calling you a slut," I stammered, my voice defensive. "It's just that… all the men that hover around you in Paris make it hard to think you are not.…"

"How dare you!" Claire roared, her voice cracking with a fresh wave of emotion. "How freaking dare you question my fidelity like that?”

"Claire," I interjected, trying to project a calm I didn't entirely feel. "I just asked a simple question. You could have just answered – yes, it's yours, or no, it's not. All this drama is unnecessary, we are both adults, Claire. There is just no need for it.”

"There's no drama!" she shot back, rising from her chair. "This baby is yours, Louis. And even if you don't want it, it's getting born."

Her words struck a chord, my stomach churned. This news threw a massive wrench into my carefully laid plans to divorce Claire soon.

A child just ruined things. Claire had always craved a child, a sentiment I had begun not to care about and no one could blame me. This is her fifth attempt, the four previous attempts ended in miscarriages that had left their mark on both of us. The memory of her previous miscarriages, each one plunging her into a desolate abyss of grief, twisted my gut. The last miscarriage was way more intense, she went a whole month staying in her room, only consuming alcohol.

Despite the lack of love in our marriage, a strange sense of empathy washed over me.

She genuinely wanted this, and I try to support her any and every way I can.

"I'll stand by you," I said, surprising even myself. "Whatever you need, just tell me. And I'm sorry for questioning you."

She leaned in, attempting to plant a kiss on my lips. Instinctively, I turned my head, offering her a hug instead. To my surprise, she didn't resist.

A sharp knock on the door shattered the fragile moment. A security guard stood at the entrance. "Sir, the journalists have been dispersed. They're no longer on the hotel grounds."

Relief washed over me momentarily. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Claire's gaze flicker towards the guard, an exceptionally handsome young man who wouldn't look out of place on a magazine cover, a fleeting spark of something uncomfortably familiar. She tried to be subtle, but the movement didn't escape me.

"Excellent," I replied, my voice a touch colder than intended. "Tell Martin – you know, my driver?"

"Yes, sir," he responded, a hint of confusion flickering across his face.

"Tell him to have the car waiting at the staff entrance. We'll meet him there.”

The guard nodded and left, but not before Claire's eyes made another, less-than-subtle sweep in his direction.

"And you wonder why I question if this baby is mine," I couldn't help but mutter, the bitterness leaking into my voice.

She didn't meet my gaze, choosing to roll her eyes and sink back into the chair, a silent admission of her fleeting lapse.

**************

Donna's Pov.

The scent of jasmine incense wafted through the hallway as I approached Charlie's apartment. My heart hammered a nervous rhythm against my ribs. Tonight was the night I'd tell him about the audition, about finally landing a role that required actual acting.

The rhythmic strains of Barry White's "You're the First, the Last, My Everything" spilled out from beneath the door, a familiar prelude to our usual routine. A wry smile touched my lips. It had been a week and a half since we'd last slept together, and the anticipation, if you could call it that, was overshadowed by a different kind of yearning.

My fingers hovered over the doorknob for a moment, the memory of Louis flashing through my mind – his touch, his scent, the intensity of that one unforgettable night.

Pushing those thoughts aside, with a deep breath, I pushed the door open because whenever Charlie was at home he kept the door open for me.

A wave of romanticism washed over me. The room was bathed in the warm glow of strategically placed candles, casting dancing shadows on the walls. A trail of red rose petals snaked across the floor, leading me on a path of seduction.

Charlie, sculpted like a Greek god, stood shirtless in the doorway, a single rose held between his teeth. The candlelight glinted off the sweat on his chest, a testament to his efforts.

He removed the rose with a flourish, his voice a low rumble. "Welcome home, my lady, my queen of the Nile."

The theatrics were a bit much, but the effort was undeniable. I found myself struggling to catch my breath, momentarily captivated by the scene he'd created.

"You like what you see?" he asked, his gaze trailing down my body before returning to my eyes.

My gaze drifted down his toned physique, and a warmth spread through me.

"Yes," I admitted, accepting the rose and allowing its velvety petals to brush against my fingertips. "I… I do.”

He closed the distance between us, his lips finding mine in a familiar kiss. The thoughts of Louis didn't vanish entirely, but they receded, pushed back by the heat of Charlie's touch. When he pulled away, a small purple box materialized in his hand.

My heart skipped a beat. Proposal number two?

"Open it," he urged, his voice husky.

Curiosity warring with apprehension, as I took the box from him.