Mateo approached the newborn with a blend of eagerness and apprehension. The baby's cries echoed through the room, and as Mateo drew nearer, his initial worry gave way to a more ominous expression. The doctor held the infant securely in a snug blanket, and as Mateo finally took a good look at his son, his breath hitched, revealing a flicker of discomfort in his eyes.
The baby had a full head of thick, black hair—darker than the night sky—and when his eyes fluttered open, they revealed a striking shade of red, like burning embers. Mateo's heart sank. This was no ordinary child. The baby bore the unmistakable traits of the Ezra lineage, the northern empire's signature look.
For a moment, Mateo was frozen, his mind racing as he processed the implications. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and a wave of anger surged through him. He glanced at Heather, who was too exhausted to notice the storm brewing in his eyes. Her face was pale, her hair damp with sweat, and she seemed unaware of the tension that was now suffocating the room.
"This... this isn't possible," Mateo muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible but laced with fury.
He couldn't tear his gaze away from the baby. The resemblance was undeniable, and it sent a chill down his spine. Black hair and red eyes—those were the traits of the Ezra royal family, traits that Mateo himself didn't possess. His blood boiled as he realized what this meant. This child couldn't be his.
Mateo's mind flashed back to the many nights of frustration, the rumors that had circulated in hushed tones among the servants, and the private moments of doubt that he had buried deep within himself. He had always suspected something was wrong, but seeing the evidence now, in the form of this tiny, innocent child, brought everything crashing down on him.
He turned to Heather, his eyes blazing with accusation. "What have you done?" he hissed, his voice low and dangerous.
Heather's head lolled weakly on the pillow, and she opened her eyes just enough to see the anger etched across Mateo's face. Confusion and fear flashed across her features, but she was too weak to respond, too tired to fully grasp what was happening.
Mateo's anger only grew as he stared at her, the woman he had thought he could control, the woman he had thought he had power over. But now, looking at the child in the doctor's arms, it was clear that something had slipped through his grasp, something he hadn't anticipated.
"This child," Mateo spat, "isn't mine."
His words cut through the air like a knife, and the room fell into a stunned silence. The doctor, sensing the rising tension, quickly handed the baby to one of the attendants and stepped back, not wanting to be caught in the middle of whatever was about to unfold.
Theo, who had been watching from the side, his eyes cold and calculating, stepped forward, his expression unreadable. He had noticed the same thing Mateo had, and now he could see the anger and betrayal written all over Mateo's face.
Mateo's eyes darted around the room, landing on the faces of the people who had witnessed his humiliation. He felt like a fool, standing there with his heart exposed, his anger barely contained. But there was no denying the truth. The child in the crib, with his dark hair and crimson eyes, was the embodiment of everything Mateo had feared.
Without another word, Mateo turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, his mind a whirlwind of rage and betrayal. Heather watched him go, her heart sinking as the realization of what had just happened slowly began to dawn on her. The room was still, the only sound the soft cries of the newborn who had just unwittingly shattered the fragile peace of their world.
And behind them all, in the shadows, Empress Lamaine watched with calculating eyes, a smile of dark satisfaction playing on her lips. The game had only just begun.
Lila stood in the doorway, her eyes shifting uneasily between the volatile scene unfolding in the room and Heather's ashen face. The air was thick with tension, each breath feeling heavier than the last. Mateo's outburst had left the atmosphere electric, crackling with anger and betrayal. Lila, however, was resolute in her quest to uncover the source of this upheaval.
The baby's cries grew more insistent, piercing through the charged silence. Lila's gaze was irresistibly drawn to the small, swaddled bundle that the doctor held. The infant's cries seemed to echo off the walls, amplifying the already palpable sense of dread. With careful, deliberate steps, Lila approached the doctor, her heart racing with an uneasy blend of anticipation and apprehension.
"May I see the baby?" Lila asked, her voice steady but tinged with concern.
The doctor, recognizing the gravity of the situation, nodded solemnly and handed the child over with a gentle but firm grip. As Lila cradled the baby in her arms, she was struck by the profound contrast between the infant's appearance and that of Mateo and Heather.
The baby's head was adorned with a full, dark mane of hair, a stark departure from the lighter hues of Mateo's and Heather's hair. More strikingly, the infant's eyes were an intense, fiery red—a hue that seemed almost otherworldly and decidedly at odds with the expectations of a royal heir.
The image of the baby, so distinct and out of place, gnawed at Lila's sense of reality. The infant's unusual appearance hinted at a deeper truth, and her growing unease was compounded by the somber expression on Heather's face.
With a mixture of determination and apprehension, Lila turned her attention back to Heather, who lay on the bed with a drained, almost defeated demeanor. Heather's pallor was accentuated by the sweat-soaked strands of hair clinging to her forehead.
"Heather," Lila began, her voice cutting through the thick silence, "who is the father of this child?"
Heather's gaze, though weak, was sharp and unwavering. Her lips, cracked and dry, twisted into a bitter, mocking smile that did little to mask the exhaustion that shadowed her features. With great effort, she mustered the strength to respond, her voice barely more than a whisper but laden with a malicious edge.
"The father is... Axel."