Chapter 8: The Prescription
The examination room was too bright, all reflective surfaces and the kind of quiet that amplified every shift of fabric, every caught breath. Dr. Levin had the calm, detached manner of someone who knew his paycheck was worth the discretion. His hands were efficient, the ultrasound wand cool against Elara’s skin.
Dante stood against the far wall, a statue carved from shadow. He hadn’t left. He watched the small screen, his eyes fixed on the grainy, shifting image with an intensity that felt like a physical force. Elara kept her own gaze on the ceiling tiles, counting the perforated holes, trying to detach from the surreal intimacy of it all.
“Heartbeat is strong,” Levin said, his voice bland. “Growth metrics are… adequate. Fetus is active.” He moved the wand, pointed. “There.”
On the screen, a tiny foot pressed against the uterine wall. A phantom echo of the kick Dante had felt. Elara heard his sharp intake of breath from across the room.
Then Levin’s tone shifted, just a fraction. He removed the wand, handed Elara a towel, and began typing notes. “The baby is leveraging resources effectively. However.” He turned to face Dante, his expression neutral. “The mother is not. She’s significantly undernourished. Iron is critically low. Vitamin D, B12, all deficient. The fetus is siphoning what it needs. It’s leaving her depleted.”
The words landed in the sterile silence with a weight all their own. Elara curled the paper towel in her fist. She’d been tired, sure. Dizzy sometimes. She’d told herself it was normal.
Dante pushed off the wall. “Explain.”
“It’s straightforward. She’s not consuming enough to sustain herself and a developing child. The child will take priority. Her body will cannibalize its own reserves to feed it. If this continues, the risks increase dramatically—for both of them. Pre-eclampsia. Premature birth. Postpartum hemorrhage.”
Each term was a clinical hammer blow. Elara felt a cold sweat break out on her neck.
“Fix it,” Dante said. It wasn’t a request.
“I will provide a comprehensive regimen. Pharmaceutical-grade supplements. A strict meal plan.” Levin printed out several pages, his printer whirring softly. “Calorie-dense, nutrient-rich foods. Every two to three hours. She needs to eat even when she’s not hungry. Especially then.”
He handed the pages to Dante, who took them as if they were a battle plan. His eyes scanned the lists, his jaw a hard line. He looked from the paper to Elara, who sat hunched on the examination table, the flimsy gown gaping at her back.
“You will eat everything I put in front of you,” he said. His voice was low, stripped of its earlier fury, leaving only a bare, terrifying command. “I won’t let you waste away for my child.”
The phrasing struck a nerve, raw and exposed. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“I don’t care what you were trying to do.” He walked over to her, the papers crumpling slightly in his grip. “The result is what matters. And the result is you’re fading.” His free hand came up, his thumb brushing the dark circle under her eye. The touch was startling. “You think I didn’t notice? The sharpness of your shoulders? The way your wrists look like they’d snap?”
She flinched. He saw everything. It was unnerving.
“We’re done here,” Dante said to Levin without looking away from her. “You’ll deliver everything on this list by tonight. Use Marco.”
The doctor nodded, packed his equipment swiftly, and left with a quiet click of the door. The silence that followed was thicker, charged.
“Get dressed,” Dante said, turning his back to give her a semblance of privacy. He stood facing the door, his shoulders a tense line under his black shirt.
Her fingers fumbled with the gown’s ties. The soft cotton of her own dress felt like a shield as she pulled it on. She was just smoothing the fabric down when he spoke again.
“Why?”
She paused. “Why what?”
“Why let it get this bad? Pride? Fear of someone finding out?” He half-turned, his profile severe. “You were punishing yourself. For getting pregnant. For it being mine.”
The accuracy was a lance to her chest. She had, in some murky, unacknowledged way. The nausea, the fatigue—they’d felt like a penance. A tangible consequence for a night of staggering, catastrophic weakness.
“It wasn’t that simple,” she whispered.
“It never is.” He finally turned fully, his gaze sweeping over her, not with desire, but with a brutal assessment. “Come on. You’re eating now.”
He didn’t take her to some formal dining room. He led her into the penthouse’s vast kitchen, a space of professional-grade appliances that looked utterly unused. He pulled out a stool at the massive island. “Sit.”
He moved with a focused, predatory efficiency. The fridge was nearly empty, but he found eggs, butter, a block of aged cheese. He set a cast iron skillet on the burner with a definitive clang. Cracked eggs one-handed. The sounds were jarringly domestic in the cavernous space.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, watching him.
“I do.” He didn’t look up. He grated cheese, the rhythmic scrape filling the silence. “You’re a practical woman, Elara. Look at the facts. You’re carrying my heir. Your body is failing at the task. I have the means to correct it. Therefore, I will.” He tossed butter into the hot pan. It sizzled, filling the air with a rich, salty smell that made her stomach clench, not with nausea, but with a sudden, deep hunger. “This isn’t about kindness. It’s about asset management.”
The cold terminology should have hurt. Instead, it was almost a relief. It was a language she could understand, a reason that wasn’t tangled up in the confusing mess of that single night and his obsession. An asset. A vessel. Fine. It was easier than being a miracle.
He slid a plate in front of her. A perfect french omelette, golden brown, folded over a melting center of cheese. A simple piece of toast on the side. It looked like the most delicious thing she’d ever seen.
“Eat.”
She picked up the fork. The first bite was an explosion of flavor, of warmth. She hadn’t realized how long she’d been eating just for function—plain oats, bland crackers, whatever she could keep down without drawing attention. She took another bite. Then another.
He leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, watching her. He didn’t speak until she was halfway through. “Levin will be back at eight tomorrow morning to draw blood and start your IV.”
She froze. “IV?”
“He said your levels are critical. We’re not waiting for pills to fix this. You’ll get a boost directly. Then we start the regimen.” His silver eyes were unyielding. “You’ll have a schedule. For eating. For resting. For gentle movement in the greenhouse. You will follow it.”
The rebellion rose then, hot and bitter in her throat. “I’m not a child. Or a prisoner.”
“Aren’t you?” He pushed off the counter and came to stand on the other side of the island, looming over her. “The door is open, Elara. You want to walk out? Do it. Go back to your tiny apartment. Go back to hiding. Go back to skipping meals and working until your back aches and lying awake at night wondering if you’ll be strong enough to push this baby out alone.” He placed his palms flat on the marble, leaning in. “See how far you get before you collapse. See what happens to my child then.”
Tears of frustration burned her eyes. He’d painted the truth so starkly it left no room for pretty delusions. She was trapped, but not just by him. By biology. By consequence. By the very life inside her that she already loved with a ferocity that terrified her.
She shoved another forkful of eggs into her mouth, chewing mechanically, staring at his hands on the counter. Strong hands. Capable of violence. Now orchestrating her nutrition.
“I hate this,” she said, her voice thick with food and emotion.
“I know.” The two words were quiet. An unexpected acknowledgment. He straightened. “Hate me. Hate the situation. But eat. Sleep. Get strong. However you need to frame it in your head to make it happen, you do that. The rest is just noise.”
She finished the plate, every last crumb. A hollow, angry compliance. When she was done, she pushed the plate away. He picked it up, took it to the sink. The domesticity of the action was strangest of all.
“Come on,” he said, drying his hands. “You need to rest. Levin’s orders.”
He led her not back to the sitting room, but down a hallway to a bedroom. It wasn’t the master. It was a guest suite, lavish but impersonal. The bed was enormous. The windows showed the city glittering like a bed of stolen jewels.
“Your things from the apartment will be here in the morning,” he said from the doorway. “For tonight, there are clothes in the dresser. They’ll fit.”
He didn’t cross the threshold.
She stood in the center of the room, feeling the weight of the food in her stomach, the weight of the child in her womb, the unbearable weight of his scrutiny. “And where will you be?”
A ghost of something—not a smile, nothing that warm—touched his mouth. “Close.”
He pulled the door closed, leaving her in the quiet. She heard the faint, definitive click of the lock engaging from the outside. Not on the door to the hall. On the door to the rest of the penthouse.
The asset was secured. The vessel was stable.
Elara walked to the bed and sat on its edge, placing her hands over her stomach. She felt the flutter again, a soft, insistent pulse. A tiny rebellion of its own.
“Okay,” she whispered into the luxurious silence, echoing his word from the greenhouse. “Okay.”
Outside the door, Dante Moretti stood in the dim hallway, his head bowed, listening to the quiet within. He unfolded the doctor’s crumpled list, smoothing it against his thigh. He read it again, committing it to memory. Every vitamin, every calorie requirement, every warning sign. A new blueprint for a war he never expected to fight. The battle for Veridia’s streets was one thing. This was different.
This was everything.