The Contract

Two Lines, One Lie

Helena's POV

I knew.
Even before the test turned pink, I knew.

I was sitting on the bathroom floor of our Monaco apartment, knees pulled up, my fingers gripping the stupid little stick like it was a grenade. I could hear the yachts outside—clinking masts, the buzz of distant waves—and all I could think was, What the hell have you done, Helena?

I wasn't scared. Not exactly. Just... frozen. Like my body already knew what my mind hadn't wanted to say out loud. The second line hadn't even formed yet, and my throat was already tight.

Three minutes. That's what the box said.
But thirty seconds in, it was already there. Bold. Clear. Pink.
Positive.

Shit.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I didn't even blink. I just sat there and stared like it was some kind of magic trick I hadn't agreed to.

I thought back—Canada. That night in Sanremo. His balcony confession. His hand on my stomach, like he knew what he'd done without knowing. I hadn't been careful. Neither had he. And now... this.

And the first thing I thought wasn't baby or future.
It was Toto.

God, how was I supposed to tell him?

I mean, yes—this started as a contract. A twisted little deal wrapped in designer lingerie and too many whispered dares. But it had changed. We had changed. Somewhere between the teasing, the jealousy, the confessions whispered after midnight... he became something real to me.

But feelings or not, this wasn't in the fine print.

I pulled myself off the floor, the test still clutched in my hand like a dirty secret. Walked into the bedroom, set it on the nightstand, and just... stood there.

I couldn't tell him.
Not yet.
Not when I didn't even know what this meant for me. For us.
He was in Northampton anyway. Meetings with Mercedes. I had space.

And I knew what I had to do.

End the contract.

He couldn't find out like this—with tension and timelines and the possibility that he might think I was trapping him. No. I had to pull the plug, disappear clean. Give him an out before things got more tangled than they already were.

I'd tell him when he was back.

Tell him the contract was over. That I couldn't keep doing this. That it had run its course.

And I'd lie—right to his face.
I'd lie and say it had nothing to do with how I felt.
Nothing to do with the way my body already felt different.
Nothing to do with the way my fingers instinctively brushed my stomach.

Because the truth?

The truth is, I already loved this thing growing inside me.

And I loved him too.

But neither of them could know that.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

_____

I was lying on his side of the bed.

Of course I was.

Wrapped in one of his white shirts that still smelled like him, the fabric too crisp and oversized against my bare legs. The apartment felt too quiet, too wide without his presence stretching into the corners. And even though I'd spent most of the day convincing myself I needed space to think, I missed him.
Badly.

My phone lit up. Toto 🖤 calling.

I answered before it even finished vibrating. "Couldn't sleep either?" I murmured, rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling like it might give me some kind of answer.

"Was thinking about you," came his voice, low and warm and slightly hoarse like he'd just gotten out of a meeting or out of the shower. "And I wanted to hear what you sound like when you miss me."

I smiled despite myself. "Smug much?"

"Absolutely. But I am right, no?"

I paused. "...Maybe."

A soft laugh on the other end. "Where are you?"

"In your bed," I said softly. "Wearing your shirt. It's unfair how good you smell, by the way. Do you bottle it?"

He chuckled, voice dipping just slightly. "So you miss me. That's what I'm hearing."

"Maybe I just miss the way you cook breakfast shirtless," I teased, fingers brushing the hem of the shirt resting against my thigh. "Or the way you boss me around in the kitchen like you own me."

"Helena," he said in that dangerous, amused tone, and I felt my heart clench in my chest.

"Hmm?"

"You know I do."

Silence stretched for a beat too long.

He shifted. I could hear him exhale. "You okay?"

No. "Yeah," I said quickly, a little too light. "Just... tired. Quiet day."

"You sound... soft." A pause. "Not in a bad way."

"I'm just thinking." I twisted the sheet around my finger. "You're not here, I've got space in my head again. Dangerous."

He laughed again. "Thinking about me, I hope."

I swallowed. "Always."

There was a quiet moment on the line, like he wanted to say something more. But he didn't. Instead, his voice lowered again.

"I have a surprise for you when I get back."

"What kind of surprise?"

"You'll see. I'll be home before lunch. Try not to burn the kitchen again."

"That happened once, and it was your fault for distracting me."

"I was kissing your neck. I regret nothing."

I laughed, and he sighed softly.

"I wish I was there."

My heart tightened. I pressed the phone closer to my ear, as if that could close the miles between us.

"Me too."

There was a beat of silence.

Then: "Can I say something stupid?"

"Always."

"I hate sleeping without you."

My breath caught. I blinked at the ceiling, biting my lip. That little sentence landed somewhere too deep, too unexpected.

So I tried to tease. "Wow. Look who's getting sentimental on a weeknight."

"I'm serious," he said gently. "There's this... emptiness in the bed without you. It's not the same."

I blinked. Swallowed. "I feel it too."

Another pause.

"Helena?"

"Yeah?"

"I like talking to you like this. At night. When you're soft."

I smiled, my hand resting lightly over my stomach. "Then talk to me until I fall asleep."

He didn't ask why my voice suddenly cracked. Or why I was quiet for a moment. He just started talking. About his day. About the wind in Northampton. About how one of the junior engineers spilled coffee on a wind tunnel report and nearly cried. I listened, let his voice carry me, fill the silence, hold me.

And eventually... I drifted off.

Still wearing his shirt.
Still cradling the secret he didn't know I carried.
Still completely, hopelessly his.