Chapter 245

Chapter 245
Emily's POV

Stefan's hand was warm around mine as we descended the staircase. My fingers still tingled from where he'd held them against his chest upstairs, and I could feel the faint tremor in his grip—like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go.

I squeezed back, trying to reassure him without words.

The dining room smelled of roasted chicken and fresh herbs, but my stomach immediately clenched. That persistent nausea was back, stronger than before.

Martha had already set the table. Two place settings, candles flickering between them, a spread of dishes that would've made my mouth water any other time.

Now I just wanted to curl up somewhere quiet.

"Sit," Stefan murmured, pulling out my chair.

I sank into it gratefully, watching as he took his own seat across from me. His eyes tracked every movement I made—the way I reached for water first, how I avoided looking directly at the food.

God, he noticed everything.

I forced myself to pick up my fork. For the baby. I had to eat for the baby, even if my body was fighting me on it.

The chicken was perfectly seasoned, tender enough to melt. I managed three bites before setting down my fork.

Stefan frowned. "Emily."

"I'm trying," I said softly. "The morning sickness... it's worse in the evenings lately."

His jaw tightened, but he didn't push. Instead, he stood and moved to the side table, returning with plain crackers and ginger tea Martha must've prepared.

"Here. Start with these."

The crackers helped. I nibbled one slowly, letting the bland taste settle my stomach. Stefan watched with that intense focus of his, like my ability to keep down food was the most important thing in the world.

Maybe to him, it was.

"We have a visitor," he said after a moment. "In the living room."

I looked up sharply. "Who?"

"Lydia." His expression was carefully neutral. "She arrived about twenty minutes ago. Martha's been keeping her company."

Lydia? Here? Without calling first?

My pulse kicked up. That wasn't like her at all.

I pushed back from the table, Stefan's hand immediately steadying my elbow as I stood. We walked together down the hallway, my mind racing through possibilities.

Was something wrong? Had something happened with James?

Martha was just leaving the living room, empty tea tray in hand. She caught my eye and gave a subtle shake of her head—a warning of some kind.

Then I saw her.

Lydia sat perched on the edge of the cream sofa like she might bolt at any second. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap, knuckles white. Even from the doorway, I could see the tension radiating off her.

"Lydia?"

She jumped at my voice, head snapping up. Her smile was too bright, too forced.

"Emily! Hey! Sorry to just... drop by like this. I tried calling but—"

"It's fine." I crossed to her, ignoring the way my stomach protested the movement. "Are you okay? You look—"

"I'm great!" The words came out too fast. "Totally great. Just wanted to, um, check in. See how you're doing."

She was lying. Badly.

I sank onto the sofa beside her, studying her face. Her eyes kept darting past me to where Stefan stood in the doorway, then skittering away like she couldn't bear to look at him directly.

What the hell was going on?

Stefan moved into the room with that predatory grace of his, settling into the armchair across from us. His arm stretched along the back, casual and possessive all at once as he regarded Lydia with cool interest.

"Everything ready?" he asked her.

Lydia's face went sheet white.

"I... what?"

"The arrangements you've been making." Stefan's voice was mild, almost pleasant. "For Emily's departure."

My head whipped toward him. "What?"

"Lydia's been very thorough," he continued, eyes never leaving my best friend's horrified face. "Hired twenty-three women of similar build and coloring to act as decoys. Researched cargo ship schedules out of the harbor. Even identified which vessels have private cabins that don't require passenger manifests."

Oh my God.

I turned slowly to Lydia, whose mouth had fallen open in shock.

"The Meridian Star, wasn't it?" Stefan's tone was almost conversational. "Departs Tuesday for South America. You've already arranged for one of the cabins to be held under a false name."

"Stefan—" Lydia's voice cracked.

"You did your homework. I'm impressed." He leaned forward slightly. "The only thing you were missing was Emily herself."

The room felt airless.

I stared at Lydia, watching her face cycle through panic to shame to something that looked like tears.

"Lydia," I whispered. "You were going to help me run?"

"I thought—" She swallowed hard. "When you told me you were pregnant, and we were at the hospital, and you were so scared about how to tell him—" Her eyes flicked to Stefan, then away. "I thought maybe... maybe you needed a way out."

Oh.

Oh no.

She'd thought the baby wasn't Stefan's. That I was trapped in some nightmare marriage, pregnant with someone else's child, too terrified to leave.

The realization hit me like a physical blow.

"Lydia..."

"I'm sorry!" Tears spilled over now. "I just wanted to help. I couldn't stand the thought of you being stuck somewhere you didn't want to be, with—" She choked on whatever she'd been about to say.

Stefan's fingers found mine, threading through them with gentle pressure. When I looked at him, his expression was softer than I expected.

"She's a good friend," he said quietly. Then, louder, with deliberate emphasis on each word: "To go to such lengths to protect you. That's what good sisters do for each other."

The edge in "good sisters" made Lydia flinch.

But I understood what he was really saying. He wasn't angry—or at least, not in the way she feared. He understood the impulse to protect someone you loved, even if it meant helping them disappear.

He just wanted her to know he'd been watching. That he'd always be watching.

My heart squeezed painfully.

"The ship's still there," Stefan continued, almost lazily. "Docked at pier A-7. You could probably still arrange passage if you wanted."

"Stefan," I said, giving his hand a squeeze. "Stop."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Just making conversation."

I turned back to Lydia, who looked like she wanted to sink through the floor.

"He's teasing you," I said gently. "Mostly."

"I should go." Lydia was already half-standing. "I just remembered I need to—the tea. Martha's tea must be cold by now. I should get fresh—"

She practically ran from the room.

I watched her flee, torn between amusement and exasperation.

"Did you have to scare her like that?"

Stefan's thumb brushed across my knuckles. "She was planning to steal my wife. I think a little fear is warranted."

"She thought she was helping me."

"I know." His voice went quiet. "That's the only reason I'm not actually angry."

I could see it in his eyes though—that flash of cold calculation. He was genuinely concerned about what Lydia might try if we ever fought, ever had problems. If she'd gone this far thinking I needed help, what might she do if she thought I was in real danger?

"We won't fight," I said suddenly.

Stefan's eyebrows rose. "What?"

"You and me. We won't fight." I shifted closer to him on the sofa. "That's what you're worried about, isn't it? That if we argue, Lydia will try to hide me somewhere you can't find me."

His silence was answer enough.

"Stefan." I waited until his eyes met mine. "We're not going to fight like that. We're going to talk. Work things out. That's what couples do."

"Do they?" The question was soft, almost vulnerable. "My parents didn't."

"We're not your parents." I said it firmly, leaving no room for doubt. "We're us. And I'm not going anywhere."

Something shifted in his expression—relief, maybe, or the beginning of belief.

"You promise?"

"I promise." I leaned in, resting my forehead against his. "No running. No hiding. No matter what."

His breath hitched. "What if we do fight? What if I—"

"Then we'll fight. And then we'll make up." I pulled back enough to see his face. "That's normal, Stefan. That's healthy."

"Healthy," he repeated, like the word was foreign.

"Yes." I touched his cheek, feeling the scratch of evening stubble. "Couples fight. They disagree. They work through it. That's... that's what love is."

His hand came up to cover mine, pressing it more firmly against his face.

"I don't want to fight with you," he said quietly. "Ever."