Rose sat on the edge of her bed, elbows braced on her knees, one hand pressed hard against her forehead as if she could squeeze the truth out of existence. Pregnant. The word felt like a blade in her gut. It wasn’t supposed to happen—not to her, not after one reckless night that wasn’t even meant to happen in the first place.

She’d never been that girl. Flirting, casual hookups—none of it fit the life she’d lived. Raised on survival and violence, she’d spent years hardening herself against weakness. Love, lust, whatever people called it, had always seemed like a distraction. But she’d grown tired of hearing it, the whispers from teammates, strangers, anyone with a pulse—everyone does it, everyone needs it, everyone wants it. So one night, she let herself believe she could be like everyone else. Just once.

And it had been good—too good. He was strong, steady, alive in a way that drew her in. A vigilante, not a mercenary. Someone who fought because he cared, not because he was paid. Their night, their morning after—it had felt real, electric, nothing like the hollow stories she’d told herself she didn’t need. And now this.

Her chest tightened. What the hell was she supposed to do? She wasn’t her father—cold, cruel, detached. But she wasn’t like him either, this man who wore a mask for justice instead of blood money. They were opposites, and yet, for a single night, she’d belonged. Now she carried proof of it, and the thought terrified her more than any blade, bullet, or mission ever had.

Rose dragged in a shaky breath and stood, pacing her room. She could hear her father’s voice in her head—scornful, mocking. She hated it. This wasn’t about him. This was about her, and the vigilante who had no idea what he’d left behind.

Her fists clenched as she moved toward the door. She’d have to tell him. She didn’t know how, didn’t know what he’d say, but hiding wasn’t an option. For the first time in her life, Rose Wilson felt like she was standing at a battlefield she had no idea how to fight on.