The Heiress Carrying His Heir-Chapter 80 - 81: the waiting room.

Lena’s pov

They put me in a plain waiting room. Not a cell. Not a dungeon. Just a small, quiet room with a chair and a table, and a guard standing outside the door. It almost feels worse than being thrown into a dungeon. A dungeon would have meant something. It would have meant they saw me as dangerous, worth locking away, worth watching. But this... this is nothing.

The chair beneath me is hard wood, uncomfortable no matter how I sit. I shift once, then stop. There is no point. It won’t get better. The table in front of me is scratched, old marks cutting across the surface like someone once dragged something sharp across it again and again out of boredom or anger. The walls are a dull gray. Maybe they used to be white, long ago. Now they look tired, worn, like no one cared enough to clean them or repaint them.

There is no window. No light except the dim one above. Just the closed door and the guard outside, who hasn’t said a word since I was brought in.

I can hear him sometimes, the soft shift of his weight, the faint sound of armor when he adjusts his stance. Proof that he is still there. Proof that I am not free.

I sit with my hands folded in my lap, back straight, chin slightly raised. The way I always sit. The way I was taught. The way I learned to survive. Calm. Composed. In control. The same mask I wore in front of Elara. The same mask I have worn for years. I am fine. I am capable. I am not afraid. I am not weak.

I hold it for as long as I can. Then slowly, in the quiet of the room, I let it slip. My shoulders drop just a little. My fingers loosen. My breath comes out slower. No one is here to see me now. No one to judge. No one to believe the lie.

Someone left blood on Elara’s bed.

That thought keeps coming back, again and again, like something sharp catching on my mind. Someone walked past the guards, entered her chambers, and placed that kerchief there, and they did it while I was sneaking around, pretending to look for apples.

Apples.

The lie still feels strange in my mouth, even now. It came so easily. Too easily. The moment I said it, it felt real, like it had always been the truth. The words lined up perfectly, one after the other, smooth and simple and believable.

And Elara believed me. Without even thinking. She laughed, soft and weak, but real, because it sounded like me. Because it was something I would do. Something small, stubborn, pointless but personal. That was all it took. That was all she needed. She never questioned it. Not once.

I close my eyes for a second, because the truth is something else entirely. I wasn’t looking for apples. I was in Malakor’s quarters, sitting across from him, listening, speaking, making a deal. I can still remember the way he looked at me, calm, careful, interested, as he took my offer I finished speaking. And when I left, I had what I wanted. An agreement. A quiet one. A dangerous one.

But my thoughts don’t stay there. They keep slipping, turning, circling back to the same thing. The same words. The same moment.

"I think I might be pregnant."

Even now, sitting in this room, those words feel new every time I think about them. Like something heavy dropped into still water, the ripple spreading outward, touching everything.

It should have been a shock. It should have been sudden. But it wasn’t. Not really. The truth sits in my chest like something I already knew, something I saw coming but refused to name. Because the signs were there. They had been there for weeks, months, even.

The nausea. Every morning, the same pattern. She would wake up, get dressed, try to act normal. Then breakfast would come, and she would push it away. Not hungry, she would say. Just tired. Always tired. Her face pale, her hand pressed lightly to her mouth. And everyone accepted it. No one questioned it, because it was easier not to.

Then came the exhaustion. It never left. She would sleep and still wake up tired, move through the day like something was weighing her down. "She works too hard," they said. "She needs rest." As if rest was something she could simply choose.

Then there were the smells, cooking meat, perfume, even the incense in the council chamber. Things no one else noticed, things that had never bothered her before, but suddenly made her sick. I remember watching her face go pale, watching her excuse herself quickly, watching her press her hand to her stomach like she was trying to hold something still.

"Her constitution is delicate," they said. "She has always been like this."

Everyone had an answer. Everyone had a reason. Even when it didn’t quite fit. Even when it didn’t make sense.

And I believed it too.

Because it was easy.

Because it meant nothing had changed.

Because it meant I didn’t have to look deeper.

The way she snapped at me sometimes, sharp, sudden, then quiet again. I ignored that too. And the way she touched her stomach when she thought no one was looking... that comes back clearly now. So many small moments. Easy to miss. Easy to dismiss. I told myself it was nothing. Just a habit. Just a gesture. Just something meaningless.

I was wrong.

We were all wrong.

The whole court had built a story around her. A simple one. A safe one. The Queen is tired. The Queen is stressed. The Queen carries too much. And we all believed it, because it asked nothing of us. Because it changed nothing. Because it was comfortable.

But the truth was right there.

She wasn’t sick.

She wasn’t weak.

She was pregnant.

The realization settles fully now, clear, sharp, final, and something hot rises in my chest. Not fear. Not shock. Something darker. Something that burns.

The father... I don’t even need to think about it.

Kaelen.

Of course it’s Kaelen.

It could never be anyone else.

I saw it long before they did, the way they looked at each other, the way they moved around each other, like they were pulled together by something they didn’t understand, something they couldn’t fight. His eyes always followed her, no matter where she went. And she softened around him, just slightly, just enough for someone watching closely to notice.

And I was always watching.

I remember the dungeon, clear as day, his back torn open from the lashes he took for her, blood still fresh, and there he was kissing her like nothing else mattered. Like the pain didn’t matter. Like the world didn’t matter. Only her. His hands on her face, her hands on his shoulders, holding him like she needed him, like she couldn’t let go.

And he was supposed to be planning her death.

I remember finding him in her bed, the sheets twisted around them, his hair messy, his face soft with sleep, and the way he looked at her. That look. Like she was something precious. Something worth losing everything for.

He never looked at me like that.

Not once.

Finally, it was the reason why she fired him.

I let out a small, empty breath, because the thought is almost laughable.

Almost.

Elara. Pregnant. Carrying Kaelen’s child.

I open my eyes and stare at the gray wall in front of me, and I let the anger come. Because it is easier than fear. Fear makes me weak. Fear makes my hands shake. Fear makes it hard to breathe.

But anger makes me steady. Makes me sharp. Makes me strong.

He got her pregnant. Kaelen got Elara pregnant while he was supposed to be working with me, while he was supposed to be planning her death, while he was supposed to be mine.

My hands press harder against the table. The rough wood bites into my skin. I focus on that feeling, because if I don’t, if I don’t hold onto something, I might lose control.

The room feels smaller now. The walls closer. The air heavier. The door is still closed. The guard is still outside. I am still alone, trapped in this dull, quiet room with nothing but my thoughts.

Nothing but the truth.

And the truth is simple.

If Kaelen finds out, if he learns that Elara is carrying his child, everything will change. He won’t finish it. He won’t go through with it. He will choose her. He will protect her. He will spare her.

And I cannot let that happen.

I won’t.

The anger burns hotter now, filling my chest, spreading through me, steady and certain.

But first, I have to get out of here. I have to clear my name. I have to remove the suspicion, the kerchief, the blood, all of it. I need to move. I need to act.

But for now, I sit in this plain, quiet room and let the anger stay, because it is the only thing keeping me steady, the only thing keeping me from breaking, the only thing keeping me warm.