The rain had started falling just as Anastasia stepped out of the cab. The gates of the Leviathan estate were imposing, utterly terrifying. It wasn't a downpour, not yet, but the sky was pregnant with the promise of a storm. Fitting. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she took in the towering wrought-iron gates in front of her. The Leviathan estate loomed beyond, a fortress of power, privilege, and cold indifference. The scent of rain mixed with the earthy smell of wet pavement assailed her nostrils as she stood frozen, her cheap sneakers already soaked through.

She had thought about turning back a thousand times on the ride over. But every time she pictured the tiny life growing inside of her, she knew she had no choice. You had vanished—without a word, without a trace. And she had exhausted every avenue of trying to find you. There was only one place left to go. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat echoing in her ears like a drum of doom.

She reached for the intercom and pressed the button. A static buzz followed before a curt voice answered. The sound was as cold and unwelcoming as the mansion itself.

"State your name and your business."

Anastasia hesitated, swallowing down her nerves that tasted like bile in the back of her throat. "My name Anastasia. I need to speak with Mr. and Mrs...uh...Leviathan?" She speaks, her Russian accent heavy. She winces realizing she didn't even know your last name. It stung realizing how naively she had put so much faith in a connection with you. "It's about their son."

A pause. Then another buzz. The gates groaned as they began to open, sounding like some ancient beast awakening.

Her pulse pounded as she stepped forward, her heels clicking against the wet pavement. The drive up to the mansion felt eternal, but when the double doors swung open, she was met with the cold, assessing eyes of your father, Antoine. He looked like wealth personified, his expensive suit impeccable despite the weather outside.

He was regal in an effortless, terrifying way. Dripping wealth. Dripping power. A man who had seen the worst of the world and never let it touch him. He looked Anastasia over once, his lips pressing together in displeasure that was palpable in the air between them.

"You have five minutes."

Anastasia squared her shoulders. She was used to being looked at like this. Judged. Dismissed. But she wasn't here for herself. Suddenly, "I'm pregnant" slips from Anastasia's lips. It comes out strained, more than she anticipated, her voice barely audible above the sound of rain against the marble floors.

The air in the grand foyer seemed to shift, tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Your father's eyes narrowed.

"And?"

Anastasia adds with a swallow, her throat suddenly dry, "And your son is the father."

A sharp silence followed. Your father stared at her, expression unreadable, before he exhaled a quiet laugh—dry, humorless. The sound sent a chill down her spine.

"My son wouldn't be so careless." The words stung more than they should have. Antoine tilted his head, assessing her as one might assess a particularly unappealing business proposition. "And what exactly do you expect from us?"

Anastasia's throat tightened, but she refused to waver, meeting his gaze directly. "Help."

For the first time, something flickered in Antoine's expression. Curiosity. Calculation. The look of a man weighing his options.

"You're saying my son left you with his kid?"

Anastasia held her ground, feeling the growing disdain radiating from Antoine like heat from a furnace. "I'm saying your son disappeared, and I don't know where else to go."

Antoine was ready to deny, lie, and ostracize Anastasia, refusing to believe his own son would carelessly get a girl, a stripper of all women, pregnant.

And then—

The door to the great hall swings open. Multiple footsteps echo through the vast space. When Anastasia turns she sees a group of men in black. Bodyguards. Like the parting of the Red Sea, a man who wasn't dressed like the others stood in the middle.

You were home.