Chapter 4: Blanket Burdens and Bare Truths
by Rachel Sandoval · 2,307 words
The estate creaked under another layer of fresh snow, the kind of sound that made you wonder if the whole mountain had joined the conspiracy against sleep. I lay in the oversized bed staring at the cedar beams, my weighted blanket kicked halfway off because its familiar pressure suddenly felt like too much and not enough all at once. My hand kept drifting to the small curve under my sweater, the lentil making its presence known with tiny shifts that no one else could feel yet. Eight weeks along and already a traitor.
I whispered to the dark, "Great. Just what I need. A built-in lie detector that flutters at the worst possible moments." My voice sounded thin, the sarcasm landing flat against the silence. Cristian's words from the great room still echoed—stop pretending it's only the scandal—and my pulse hadn't settled since. His hand on my back. That storm in his eyes. I twisted my mother's ring until the metal bit skin, a habit that usually grounded me but tonight just made me feel twelve years old again.
Around three a.m. the creak of floorboards pulled me from the edge of dozing. Footsteps. Light ones, deliberate. Cristian's insomnia again. I held my breath, willing him to pass my door. Instead it swung open a crack, pale fingers curling around the edge. Moonlight from the hall windows caught the sandy fall of his hair as he stepped inside holding something bundled in his arms.
"Your blanket," he said without preamble, voice low and rough from lack of use. He set the weighted thing on the foot of my bed like it was evidence in one of his board meetings. "Found it in the great room. Figured you might need it."
Heat flooded my face so fast I was grateful for the darkness. I'd left it downstairs after our tense fireside standoff, too rattled to drag it back up. Now here he was, delivering my childish crutch like some twisted version of room service. I sat up, hair a wavy mess I immediately tried tucking behind my ears. The oversized sleep shirt slipped off one shoulder, and I yanked it back with all the grace of a startled raccoon.
"Thanks," I muttered, the word tasting like admission. "I don't actually need it. It's just... habit."
He didn't leave. Of course he didn't. Instead he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over a faded MIT tee that stretched across his chest in ways that should be regulated. Those blue-grey eyes studied me with that piercing focus, the one that made data sets confess their secrets. "You've been different since that night, Stella. Not just the resignation. The baking. The dizziness. Now this." He nodded at the blanket. "Talk to me."
My throat tightened. The lentil chose that moment to do a lazy roll, and I pressed a hand to my stomach before catching myself. Bad move. His gaze tracked the motion like a hawk spotting movement in tall grass. I forced a laugh that came out more like a cough. "Different? Please. I'm the same brilliant analyst who triple-checks everything. Just trapped in a snow globe with my former boss who apparently moonlights as a blanket delivery service."
His mouth twitched, that almost-smile that always disarmed me. But he didn't laugh. Instead he ran a hand through his hair, leaving it more rumpled. The gesture looked exhausted. "I sleep four hours a night. Have for years. After the divorce it became a habit—hyper-vigilance, my therapist called it. Wandering the house, organizing coffee roasts at odd hours, pretending control fixes the emptiness."
The confession landed soft between us, heavier than the blanket he'd returned. I hadn't expected that. Not from Cristian Moriarty, the man who built an empire on variables and zero surprises. My fingers found the edge of the weighted fabric, twisting it like I twisted my ring. Great, now his loneliness was making my own walls look ridiculous. Like paper shields against a guy methodically taking them apart one late-night visit at a time.
"That sounds... lonely," I said before I could stop myself. The words hung there, too honest. I backpedaled with my usual precision. "Not that I'm one to talk. Foster homes taught me early that depending on people just means watching them leave with your stuff."
He pushed off the doorframe and took one step closer. The air between us thickened, charged with the memory of that reckless night—his mouth on my neck, my nails down his back, the way we'd both pretended it was just stress relief. Now it was something else entirely. His pale fingers flexed at his sides like they wanted to reach for me but knew better.
"You're carrying more than loneliness," he murmured. That faint British inflection made it sound almost gentle. "I see it in the small things. The way you guard yourself. Tell me the truth, Stella. Before this isolation drives us both mad."
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I worried he'd hear it. The confession bubbled up—I'm pregnant, it's yours, I was going to disappear—but I swallowed it down like bad coffee. Instead I deflected with the self-deprecating humor that usually worked. "Truth? Fine. I stress-bake at two a.m. because it beats therapy, and I need the blanket because weighted things remind me I'm not floating away. Happy now? No deep dark corporate conspiracy. Just me being a mess."
He studied me another beat, the silence stretching until it felt like skin pulled too tight. Then he hummed a few bars of Chopin, the notes low and thoughtful in the dark. It did unfair things to my insides. "You're a terrible liar when you're tired. But I'll let it slide. For now." His eyes dropped to the blanket again. "Get some rest. The board wants that power couple update by the end of the week."
He turned to go, but paused at the threshold. "And Stella? That night wasn't a mistake for me. Not the way you seem to think." The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with my racing pulse and the lentil doing victory laps.
The storm hit harder the following night, wind howling like it wanted to peel the roof off. I'd managed maybe three hours of sleep before the power flickered, once, twice, then died completely. The generator should have kicked in, but something must have frozen or shorted because the house stayed dark. Cold crept in fast, seeping through the Scandinavian minimalist windows that suddenly felt less like luxury and more like expensive sieves.
I grabbed the weighted blanket—yes, the one he'd returned—and padded downstairs in thick socks, mother's ring twisting anxiously on my finger. The great room fireplace still had embers glowing from earlier. I knelt to stoke it, adding logs with hands that shook from more than the chill. My sweater hung loose but my leggings were starting to pinch at the waist in a way that made every movement a reminder. Months until I couldn't hide this anymore. The thought sat like lead in my gut.
Footsteps behind me. Of course. Cristian appeared from the shadows of the hallway, carrying a flashlight and looking unfairly composed in sweatpants and that same MIT shirt. His hair was sleep-mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that made my fingers itch. He didn't comment on my blanket cape. Just crouched beside me and took over the fire-building with those economical movements that always looked like chess.
"Generator's glitching," he said, voice gravel-rough. "I'll check it at first light. For now, this is our best heat source." He added kindling, the flames catching and painting his pale skin gold. We ended up side by side on the massive sectional, the fire crackling between us and the storm raging outside. The proximity was torture. His knee kept brushing mine accidentally, sending little sparks up my leg that had nothing to do with static.
I pulled the blanket higher, pretending it was for warmth and not armor. "This is ridiculous. Two adults huddled like pioneers while a billion-dollar estate sits useless around us."
His shoulder bumped mine as he shifted, and neither of us moved away. The firelight caught the sharp line of his jaw, softening it. "Pioneers had fewer variables. No board breathing down their necks with photos and ultimatums." He paused, then added with that dry wit, "Though I suppose they didn't have to worry about their data analyst hiding secrets that could tank everything."
There it was again. The hook. I swallowed hard, the lentil giving a sympathetic flutter that made me press a hand to my middle under the blanket. Low blood sugar or nerves or both. "If you're fishing for more confessions, the water's frozen over. I'm not biting."
He turned to look at me fully then, blue-grey eyes reflecting the flames. Close enough that I could smell his soap and the faint coffee ghost on his breath. His hand moved like it had a mind of its own, reaching to tuck a strand of my wavy dark hair behind my ear. The touch was feather-light, those gentle fingers brushing my cheek and lingering half a second too long. Electricity shot straight down my spine. I flinched away harder than I meant to, the movement jerking my shoulder against his chest.
"Sorry," I mumbled, cheeks burning. "Hair's always in the way. Nervous habit."
But he didn't pull back. His hand dropped to rest on the back of the couch, inches from my neck, and the charged pause stretched between us like a held breath. We both felt it—the pull, the what-if, the terrifying possibility that this isolation was rewriting every rule we'd built our lives on. My heart hammered so loud I was sure he could hear it over the wind. His throat worked as he swallowed, that perfect posture cracking just enough to show the man underneath the billionaire armor.
"You've been different since that night," he said again, quieter this time. The words carried weight from our doorway talk, from every suspicious glance since the hike. "Not just altitude or stress. I see it in the small things. The midnight kitchen raids you think I don't notice. Why, Stella? What changed?"
The almost-confession rose again, thick in my throat. I could taste it—salty fear mixed with the strange relief of unburdening. My fingers found my mother's ring, twisting furiously. The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney like tiny escape attempts. "I... things got complicated after. Personal stuff. The kind that doesn't belong in board updates or late-night confessions by inadequate fireplaces."
Self-deprecating humor to the rescue, even if it rang hollow. I added a weak laugh. "Besides, if I told you, you'd probably organize it into neat little roast levels like your coffee. Light betrayal, medium dependency, dark and stormy secret."
He studied me another beat, the silence stretching until it felt like skin pulled too tight. Then he hummed a few bars of Chopin, the notes low and thoughtful in the dark. "You're a terrible liar when you're tired. But I'll let it slide. For now." His eyes dropped to the blanket again. "Get some rest. The board wants that power couple update by week's end."
He turned to go, but paused at the threshold. "And Stella? That night wasn't a mistake for me. Not the way you seem to think." The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with my racing pulse and the lentil doing victory laps.
The next morning I hovered in the kitchen, stress-eating a banana while Cristian set up for the video call in the great room. His laptop faced the fireplace, positioned to show the luxurious backdrop and us looking appropriately cozy. I'd chosen an oversized sweater that hid everything important, but my waistband still dug in mercilessly. Lila had prepped us via secure message: sell the relationship, downplay the photo, give them something to chew on that wasn't termination.
I twisted my ring, watching him organize notes with precise movements. His humming had started—Bach, the prelude that always sounded like falling rain. It wrapped around the quiet space, making the domestic scene feel almost normal. Almost like we were a real team instead of a scandal waiting to explode.
The call connected with a chime. Marcus's silver-haired face filled half the screen, his calculated smile firmly in place. Two other board members flanked him, looking stern and impatient. "Cristian. Stella. Lovely to see you both looking so... domestic. The mountain air agrees with you."
Cristian's posture was perfect, but his hand found the small of my back as I stepped into frame, the touch protective and possessive in a way that sent heat crawling up my neck. "The update is progressing," he said smoothly. "Internal breach confirmed to test server. We're narrowing suspects. As for the photo—"
I tuned out the corporate speak, focusing on keeping my expression neutral. But the lentil had other plans. A strange sensation rippled low in my belly, not nausea but something else. A flutter. Distinct. Like butterfly wings against the inside of my skin. The baby. Our baby. Moving stronger than before.
My gasp slipped out before I could stop it, audible and sharp. My hand flew to my stomach instinctively, pressing there as if I could hold the moment in. The room seemed to tilt, the fire's warmth suddenly too much.
On screen, Marcus's eyes narrowed. But it was Cristian who reacted first. He paused mid-sentence, turning those piercing blue-grey eyes on me with quiet intensity that cut through the monitor like a blade. His hand tightened on my back, the touch no longer casual.
"Stella," he said, voice dropping to that measured tone that hid storms. "What the hell was that?"