Chapter Text
Kate stared at the ceiling of Anthony’s bedroom, her breathing still uneven as her pulse slowly settled. The apartment was unmistakably a bachelor’s domain with all the minimalism, sharp-edges and the almost aggressively neutral details. Glass, steel, and curated art that felt more like an investment than decoration (and he for sure had not picked himself). It had always struck her as cold.
And yet, over the past few months, it had softened. Not obviously. Not in ways anyone else would notice. But she had. The thermostat ran a few degrees warmer than it used to. There were more pillows now, actual, comfortable ones instead of the decorative nonsense he once owned. Oat milk had appeared in the fridge beside his usual absurdly expensive bottled water. A throw blanket lived permanently at the end of the bed.
He would never admit those changes were deliberate.
And she would never give him the satisfaction of knowing she suspected they were.
She felt his hands at her waist, large, steady and grounding, before one arm slid around her and drew her closer. He had already cleaned up everything off himself and her, methodical as always, and returned without a word. Another unspoken rule had emerged recently between them: Cuddling was mandatory.
They couldn’t really justify why, but if they were already sleeping together, why not cuddle for a couple of minutes?
“I got you water,” he murmured, his voice low as he pressed his face into the curve of her neck.
She hummed in acknowledgment before reaching back for the glass on the nightstand. “Thanks.”
“Was it too much?” he asked quietly, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You look more breathless than usual.”
Her gaze remained fixed on the ceiling. “No. It’s fine. I’ve just been a little tired lately.”
He went still for half a second — a subtle pause most people wouldn’t catch.
“I have taken notice you are less…nitpicking lately.”
Her head turned sharply toward him. “I do not nitpick.”
“You do,” he said, lifting his face to look at her properly now, eyes dark but amused. “I am still to make my revenge for you correcting me in front of the CFO.”
She rolled her eyes. “You were being unreasonable. The budget is not supposed to bend to your will just because you dislike a projection—”
“Dorset is an ass. And give it a break, woman,” he muttered, too exhausted to escalate it into one of their usual sparring matches. His cheek settled against her chest, ear resting just above her heartbeat. “It’s been a long week.”
She exhaled slowly. He wasn’t wrong.
The sudden dip in Bridgerton Group’s stock had rattled everyone. It wasn’t catastrophic — manageable, contained — but sharp enough to unsettle the board. The counsel had been restless. The PR team paranoid. Investors circling with questions wrapped in politeness.
Which meant meetings. Endless meetings.
And when Anthony was stressed, he tightened control. When Kate was stressed, she pushed back.
They had argued through conference rooms, through strategic reviews, through compliance updates and then dissolved the tension the only way they knew how.
It was almost miraculous they’d made it to his apartment tonight considering how many surfaces in his office had been “tested” after the last board call. She smirked faintly at the memory.
He shifted slightly, fingers tracing idle patterns along her side.
“You are tired,” he said again, softer now. Less accusation. More of an observation.
“It’s been demanding,” she replied carefully.
His thumb stilled against her skin.
Anthony was many things, arrogant, commanding, maddeningly stubborn, but he was not inattentive. Not really. He catalogued everything. Data, patterns, deviations. And lately, she had been a deviation.
“I didn’t mean only the job” he said “You look physically tired”.
“You really have a way with words”.
“You know what I meant”
“I am fine, I just need a relaxing weekend. With no board rooms, or meetings, or calls or—“
“Me?”.
“Yes”.
A faint smile ghosted across his lips against her skin. “Nitpick,” he muttered again.
She nudged his shoulder. “Go to sleep, Bridgerton.”
”I could give you some vacations.” He offered a little lower.
”I don’t need special treatment.” She replied still staring at the ceiling.
He huffed softly and nodded in acknowledgment, but he didn’t move away. If anything, he pulled her closer, anchoring her to him as though proximity itself was a strategy.
Her fingers drifted absentmindedly through his hair. And like that, they fell asleep.
{...}
By Saturday morning, Kate reluctantly began to consider that Anthony might have been right.
She was physically tired.
Not mentally, she was used to that. Mental exhaustion was her baseline. Negotiations, compliance audits, strategic positioning, navigating Anthony Bridgerton’s ego. That was all manageable.
But this felt different.
She woke earlier than usual, restless. Her apartment was quiet, only the soft snoring of Newton still asleep in the other room could be heard. She slipped out of bed, laced her running shoes, and headed to the park a few blocks away.
Running had always been her reset button. Discipline. Control. Breath in, breath out. Predictable. The morning air was cool, London was softer at that hour.
The first few steps felt normal. By the half-mile mark, her legs felt heavier than they should. By the one mile mark, her lungs burned in a way that didn’t make sense.
Her heartbeat felt too loud in her ears. Her energy was completelly gone. As if someone had pulled a plug. She stopped entirely, hands on her hips, trying to regulate her breathing. This was ridiculous.
She had run half-marathons out of pure spite and now she was winded after barely a mile. Annoyed, she started walking back toward the street to call a cab. As she reached the sidewalk, a woman passed her, leaving behind an aggressive cloud of perfume it was too sweet, heavy, cloying.
Kate’s stomach flipped instantly. Saliva pooled sharply. For one horrifying second she genuinely thought she might vomit right there on the pavement in front of joggers and dog walkers. She pressed her fingers to her lips, turning away, breathing through her nose. That only made it worse. The scent lingered like an assault on her.
“God,” she muttered under her breath, stepping away quickly, blinking against the wave of nausea.
It took nearly a full minute for the sensation to subside. Her hand drifted unconsciously to her abdomen.
She stood very still. Exhaustion. Nausea. Heightened sensitivity. Late. Tired. Irritable. Breathless. Nauseated.
It couldn’t be. It really should’nt be.
She pulled out her phone and ordered a cab with fingers that were steadier than she felt. It could be anything. But as she slid into the backseat of the cab minutes later, leaning her head against the cool window, one thought kept pressing forward, insistent and impossible to ignore.
What if it was?
{...}
She couldn’t sleep that night. Haunted and terrified by the doubt of what might be happening inside herself, both physically and emotionally. Her mind would not quiet.
Because this wasn’t supposed to be complicated.
They had rules.
No attachment. No dependency. No future planning. No vulnerability. Just tension. Just release. Just control.
And yet her body felt like it was quietly dismantling that illusion.
Around two in the morning, she has enough. She slipped out of bed, padded into the bathroom, and closed the door softly behind her. She stared at her reflection under the dim light.
She looked the same she had always been.
Sharp. Composed. Controlled. Nothing suspicious. No glow. Just her.
But her cycle was late. Not dramatically. But enough to make her second guess. They forgot condoms more than once, they couldn’t really keep a box in the office. But she was on the pill and took religiously and Anthony had more than once offered to take care of the birth control. They had been careful, at least that was she thought.
She reached for her phone on the counter.
She considered calling him, telling him her doubt. But if it was nothing, she would have make the two of them panic for no reason. Her thumb hovered for a moment before she opened a delivery app. 24/7 drugstore. Pregnancy test with express delivery. Thirty minutes until she learned if her own body her betrayed her or not.
She placed the order and then she sat on the cold edge of the bathtub and waited.
Every sound in the apartment felt amplified when she was alone with her own thoughts, the hum of the refrigerator, distant traffic, Newton snores.
She retrieved the small paper bag from the doorman downstairs herself. No eye contact. No expression. She made a mental note to send him a muffin basket for lack of manners on the next morning.
Back upstairs, she locked the bathroom door even though the dog asleep hardly cared for what she was doing. Hands steady. Instructions read. Procedure followed.
She set the test on the counter. And then she waited and those three minutes stretched longer than any board meeting she had ever endured. Her heart pounded louder than it had during any negotiation.
Finally, she forced herself to look.
Two lines.
Real. Very much real.
The air left her lungs in a slow, stunned exhale.
Her fingers instinctively pressed against her abdomen again, as if she might feel something different.
Nothing felt different. And yet everything had just changed with one simple fact: Kate Sharma was pregnant with Anthony Bridgerton´s baby.