Chapter 18: The Pregnant Pause
The wine was too dry, cutting through the rich sauce in a way that felt surgical. Marcus watched the candle flame between them shiver each time Chad’s large hand gestured while he talked about his sets at the gym. The story was, as always, about weight, repetition, and a minor rivalry with someone named Trent. Marcus nodded at the right moments, a soft “mmm” escaping his lips—the Lexi-voice, tuned to a frequency of placid agreement.
He was acutely aware of the architecture of the black dress. The plunge of the neckline was a canyon, the fabric relying on some hidden miracle of tension and static to stay put. He felt the cool air from the kitchen’s pass—visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows where cooks moved in a warm, frantic ballet—lick the exposed skin of his sternum, his upper back. He’d spent ten minutes in the mansion’s bathroom, peering into his reflection, adjusting and readjusting, feeling like an engineer trying to armor a soft, vital target.
Now, he saw the effect. A waiter refilling their water glasses fumbled the carafe, his eyes dipping for a split second too long. An older man at the bar, nursing a bourbon, kept glancing over the rim of his glass, his gaze a slow crawl from the cascade of blonde hair down to the table’s edge. Marcus tracked each one. The accountant’s mind, deprived of spreadsheets, now compiled a different dataset: duration of glance, subsequent reaction of female companion, approximate age and social bracket of observer.
A perverse, icy thrill slithered through him. He remembered being that guy at the bar. The covert, guilty look. The quick calculation: worth the risk of being caught? The vague, shapeless want. Now he was the object of the calculation. He was the risk. The want had a specific ZIP code, and it was sitting right here in this dress.
He looked at Chad. His boyfriend. The Adonis, currently explaining the importance of “mind-muscle connection” while slicing a medium-rare strip steak with effortless, predatory grace. The irony was so dense it had its own gravity. I saved for years, Marcus thought, to become a giant. To become him. And instead I became the thing he wants to own. The prize. The body he’d paid Aurora Clinics for would have been smaller, probably. Less defined. A beta version. Chad was the finished product, the platinum edition Marcus had originally dreamed of inhabiting. Now he was just its accessory.
Chad caught him looking. He smiled, a piece of steak still on his fork. “You’re quiet tonight, babe. Food no good?”
“The food is perfect,” Marcus said, hearing the hollow, pleasing tone. He took a tiny, deliberate bite of his roasted squash, the thyme and honey bursting on his tongue. A performance of delicacy. “Just thinking.”
“’Bout what?” Chad prompted, his interest genuine and uncomplicated.
Marcus set his fork down. He reached for his small clutch purse—another borrowed prop from Lila’s endless arsenal—and pulled out his phone. He’d prepared for this. He opened a fertility tracking app he’d downloaded that afternoon, a sleek, pink-and-white interface he’d populated with completely fabricated data. He turned the screen toward Chad.
“About this,” Marcus said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. He pointed a manicured fingernail—Shell Pink, the color was called—at a graph that showed a spike. “See this peak here? It means tonight is… optimal. The most likely time for conception.”
He watched the words land. Chad’s chewing slowed. His eyes, usually bright with simple intent, flicked from the phone screen to Marcus’s face, then down to the exposed cleavage, then back to the screen. A complex series of calculations seemed to be happening behind his square-jawed face. This was a different kind of spreadsheet. Primal math.
“Optimal,” Chad repeated, the word heavy in his mouth. He swallowed his steak.
“The app is rarely wrong,” Marcus said, clicking the phone off, sealing the fiction. He let a shy, hopeful smile touch his lips—a expression he’d practiced in the mirror. “I was just thinking… if we’re serious about building that life… maybe we shouldn’t leave it to chance. Maybe we should… aim for it. Tonight.”
The candlelight caught in Chad’s eyes, turning them molten. All traces of the gym, of Trent, of steak, vanished. His entire formidable focus telescoped down to the woman across from him and the biological window she’d just presented. It was the ultimate call to action.
A slow, triumphant grin spread across his face. It wasn’t just a horny grin. It was proud. Purposeful. He had been given a mission, and he was the perfect tool for it.
He didn’t answer with words. He pushed his plate aside, the silverware clattering softly. He reached his arm across the crisp white tablecloth. His large, warm hand found Marcus’s thigh under the table, his fingers pressing into the delicate muscle through the dress’s thin fabric. The grip wasn’t playful or seductive. It was firm. Decisive. A claim staking itself on the future.
“No maybe about it,” Chad said, his voice a low, resonant promise that carried over the gentle clatter of the kitchen. His thumb stroked a slow, possessive arc on Marcus’s leg. “We’re gonna do this right. I’m gonna give you exactly what you need.”
He flagged down their waiter with a curt, two-fingered wave. “Check. Now. And box this up.”
As the waiter scurried away, Chad leaned forward, the candle flame painting shadows across the hard planes of his face. “You finish your wine,” he instructed, his gaze locked on Marcus’s. “I want you relaxed. Ready. This is important.” He said it with the solemn gravity of a man about to lift a personal record. A biological personal record.
Marcus picked up his wine glass. He took a sip, the dry tang doing nothing to cut through the concrete that seemed to be setting in his stomach. He felt the weight of the performance settling onto his shoulders, heavier than any barbell Chad could lift. He’d initiated the script. He’d pointed to the calendar. He’d made it a project, a goal with a timeline.
He thought of the home theater, the terrifying, wet discovery, the horrifying hypothetical of function. That was no longer a ghost of a thought. It was the night’s work order. Chad’s hand on his thigh was the signature of approval.
The waiter brought the check. Chad slapped down a black credit card without looking at the total. He kept his other hand on Marcus, a steady, anchoring pressure.
Outside, the valet brought Chad’s truck around. Chad helped Marcus into the passenger seat, his hand lingering on the small of his back, guiding him in with a new, almost reverential care. As they pulled away from the warm glow of the restaurant, the city lights began to streak by the windows.
Chad drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on Marcus’s knee, a constant, warm brand. He was quiet, but it wasn’t an empty silence. It was the silence of concentration. Of a man preparing for the most significant lift of his life.
Marcus stared out at the passing night. He’d turned himself into a project plan for someone else. The ghost in the machine was now actively piloting the machinery toward its own deepest fear, because the only other option—revealing the truth—felt like a form of psychic suicide. The asset was being deployed for its intended, biological purpose.
He could feel the app’s fictional peak looming, a wave about to break. And Chad’s steady, confident hand on his knee felt less like a touch and more like a countdown.