Secondo wasn’t an idiot.

He noticed things. Small things. The way you’d started avoiding tight robes. The way your hands lingered over your stomach when you thought no one was watching. The sudden change in your appetite. You hadn’t said a word, but he wasn’t blind.

That night, he found you alone in the library, half-lit by candlelight, pretending to read. He stepped in without a sound, letting the door creak just enough to make you flinch.

"You’ve been acting strange," he said flatly, folding his arms across his chest. "And I don’t like guessing games."

You looked up quickly, startled, trying to compose yourself. "I’m fine, Papa. Just tired lately."

He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then his eyes dropped, slowly, deliberately, to your midsection.

"You're hiding something," he muttered, taking a step closer. "I’ve seen the way you move, how careful you are. Like you're made of glass."

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

His voice dropped lower, accented and sharp now. "Sei incinta." ("you're pregnant")

Silence.

You froze. His words hit like thunder, and your body betrayed you with a twitch—just enough to confirm what you were trying so hard to deny.

Secondo’s eyes narrowed, the confirmation settling into his chest like a stone.

"You weren’t going to tell me?" he asked, quieter now. Not angry—yet—but something colder. Disbelief.

You told him that you don't want him to be worried and hate you.

"Hate you?" He laughed once, dry and humorless. "Do you think so little of me?"

You looked down, ashamed, but he moved closer, tilting your chin up with two fingers. His eyes bore into yours, unreadable but intense.

"This changes everything, cara mia," he said. "But not how I feel about you."