Steady

Steady
Damien sat alone in the back room of an abandoned factory, the air heavy with oil and dust. A single bulb swung above him, its weak light glinting off the silver dagger laid across the table. His father’s death still echoed in his mind—every last breath, every drop of blood burned into him like a curse.

His hands trembled, not with grief but with fury. Dante did this.

And Mandy… the thought of her name made his jaw clench. She betrayed me first.

He paced slowly, his boots crunching against broken glass. A map was spread before him, littered with photos and notes—Mandy in her hospital bed, Dante’s estate circled in red ink, Aria’s face marked with an X he couldn’t bring himself to cross out.

“She made me weak,” he muttered to himself. “They all did.”

He picked up the dagger, the edge gleaming beneath the light. “No more second chances.”

A man stepped out of the shadows—a tall figure dressed in black, his face half-hidden beneath a hood. “You called for me,” the stranger said.

Damien’s lips curved into a cold smile. “Two targets,” he said, sliding the photographs across the table. “Mandy Vale. Dante Blackwood.”

The man looked down at the photos, then back at him. “Both?”

“Both,” Damien replied, his voice low, deliberate. “I want it done clean. Quiet. No mistakes.”

“And the woman?” the man asked, glancing at Aria’s crossed-out picture.

Damien’s eyes flickered, a brief flash of conflict breaking through his calm. He turned away, slipping the dagger into its sheath. “Leave her,” he muttered. “She’ll come to me when they’re gone.”

The assassin nodded once, pocketing the photos before disappearing into the dark.

As the door closed, Damien sat back, staring at the empty space where the man had stood. The silence pressed against him, heavy and suffocating.

He whispered to no one, “If the gods won’t give me justice… I’ll take it myself.”

The morning light spilled gently through the curtains, but Aria barely noticed it. Her stomach churned as if the world inside her had turned upside down. She sat up slowly, one hand pressing against her abdomen, the other gripping the edge of the bed for balance.

A sour taste filled her mouth. The air felt too warm, too heavy. She pushed the sheets aside and stumbled toward the bathroom, her bare feet dragging across the floor. The moment she reached the sink, the nausea hit full force.

After a few agonizing moments, she splashed cold water on her face, trying to steady her breath. Her reflection in the mirror startled her—pale skin, tired eyes, and a faint tremor in her hands.

“What’s wrong with me?” she whispered, brushing her hair back.

From the bedroom, she heard Dante’s footsteps. “Aria?” His voice was soft, still rough with sleep. “You okay?”

She straightened quickly, forcing a weak smile as he appeared in the doorway, worry etched across his face.

“I’m fine,” she said too quickly. “Just… dizzy.”

Dante frowned, stepping closer. “You’re pale.” He reached for her hand, thumb brushing her wrist. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. Maybe it’s the stress.”

She nodded faintly, though a flicker of something else stirred in her chest—a quiet, unspoken fear. This feeling was familiar. It wasn’t just exhaustion.

As he guided her back to bed, her gaze drifted toward the window, unfocused. A soft whisper echoed in her mind, something she couldn’t quite place. Not sickness… change.

Her hand drifted unconsciously to her stomach, and for a moment, her heart skipped.

The bright chime of the store door broke the quiet hum of the morning. Lila walked in first, her round belly brushing softly against the air as she laughed at something Aria said. The baby boutique smelled faintly of lavender and new cotton, shelves lined with soft blankets and pastel clothes too small to seem real.

“Oh, look at this one!” Lila exclaimed, lifting a tiny onesie patterned with stars. “Can you imagine? My little bean in this.”

Aria smiled, though her fingers tightened slightly around the shopping basket she carried. “It’s adorable,” she said, her voice light, steady—but inside, something tugged at her chest.

Lila’s joy was infectious; she glowed when she talked about the nursery, about names, about how the baby kicked at night. Aria listened, smiling in all the right moments, but every laugh felt a little fragile, every breath tinged with something unspoken.

When Lila wasn’t looking, Aria’s hand drifted to her stomach again—an unconscious gesture she didn’t understand, or maybe didn’t want to. The ache in her chest deepened.

“You’ll help me decorate the nursery, right?” Lila asked, holding up a soft blanket the color of clouds.

Aria nodded quickly. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

They moved down another aisle. The faint lullaby playing through the speakers tangled with the rustle of fabric, filling the silence between them.

Lila glanced at her with a gentle smile. “You’d make a great mom, you know.”

The words caught Aria off guard. She blinked, forcing a soft chuckle. “Me? I can barely keep a plant alive.”

But her voice wavered, and Lila noticed. “Hey,” she said softly, reaching for her hand. “You’ll have your time, Aria. The moon doesn’t forget its children.”

The sky was already blushing into shades of gold and rose by the time Aria stepped out of the baby boutique. The shopping bags swayed gently at her side, and Lila waved before heading in the opposite direction. For the first time in hours, Aria was alone—with her thoughts and the quiet hum of the city evening.

Her phone buzzed in her purse. The caller ID made her heart skip—Dante.

She pressed the phone to her ear, her lips curving despite herself. “Hey.”

“Hey, beautiful,” his voice came, low and smooth through the line. She could hear the faint sound of jazz in the background, the clink of a glass. “Where are you?”

“Just leaving the store. Why?”

“Because,” he said, a hint of mischief in his tone, “you’ve been running around all day, and I’ve decided you owe me a night of your undivided attention.”

Aria laughed softly, shifting the bag to her other hand. “Is that so? And what makes you think I’m free tonight?”

“I don’t think,” he murmured, “I know. And before you protest, I already made reservations. Wear something that makes me regret letting you out of my sight.”

She rolled her eyes, but the warmth in his voice softened her resistance. “You really don’t take no for an answer, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you,” he said, his voice dipping lower, intimate. “Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”

The line clicked off, leaving her with a smile that lingered even as a faint breeze brushed her cheek. She slipped the phone back into her purse, her stomach fluttering—not from nausea this time, but from the memory of how easily he could still make her feel like the only woman in the world.