CHAPTER 274: CHAPTER 274: HEARTSTRINGS AND HARD CHOICES

~Zayn’s POV~

The message from Meera—I’m not feeling fine—felt like a desperate pull on the chain she kept around my neck. Despite Nicki’s sharp assessment about her being a "drama queen," the raw guilt still won. I muttered a quick goodbye to Nantam, jumped in the car, and sped home. The DNA test was the priority, but I couldn’t ignore her if she was genuinely ill and alone in my house.

I burst through the front door. The living room was empty, the air heavy with an artificial quiet. I found her immediately in my bedroom, curled tightly on the bed, looking small and fragile under the comforter.

"Meera! Are you okay?" I rushed toward her, my plan to be distant completely dissolving.

She threw the covers back and immediately rushed up to hug me, clinging tightly to my waist. "Zayn, you came back," she whimpered into my shirt. "I feel so terrible."

I peeled her gently off me and helped her sit on the edge of the bed. "What is it? A headache? Did you eat something bad? Did you take anything?" I fired off questions, my hand automatically going to her forehead to check for fever.

She was weak and vague, clutching her stomach with a dramatic flinch. "It’s my tummy, Zayn. It’s so much agony." After several minutes of distressed moans and exaggerated gasps, she finally narrowed it down. "It’s my cycle. The menstrual cramps are overwhelming this time. I feel so weak I can’t even stand."

She was clearly putting on a show, but the physical reality of cramps was hard to dismiss, and her vulnerability was a potent weapon. Every exaggerated gesture, every whispered groan, fueled the guilt that still gnawed at me: This woman carried my child, even if she never let me claim him or be a father. And because of that alone, I felt trapped. Whether I wanted to or not, I found myself slipping into the role of caretaker, as if I owed her something simply for bringing my child into the world.

I knew my day was already ruined. Work didn’t matter anymore; every plan I had just vanished.

I found painkillers, made her a warming herbal tea, and then went to the kitchen to cook her a light soup. When I brought the tray back, she was still curled in the fetal position.

"Zayn, please," she whispered, her voice strained. "Could you just rub my stomach? It hurts so much, and your touch always helped me relax.

"Meera, I don’t want to touch—"

"Zayn," she interrupted, eyes pleading. "Do it for our son. Just think about him."

The way she mentioned our son was deliberate, a perfectly aimed blow. This wasn’t about easing her pain; it was about pulling me back into her space, forcing intimacy I wasn’t willing to give. And yet, the moment she tied her request to our child, I felt trapped. How could I refuse comfort when it sounded like refusing my own son?

I carefully set the tray down and sat beside her. I placed my hand gently over her abdomen and began to rub in slow, measured circles. She immediately melted into the touch, letting out a sigh of deep contentment.

That was the routine until nightfall. I stayed glued to her side, fetching things and applying my hand whenever she asked. I gave her all my attention for the entire day, but I was hyper-aware of my boundaries. Whenever she tried to hold my hand, shift her weight to lean into my shoulder, or try to entangle her legs with mine under the blanket, I subtly pulled back, adjusting the pillow, pouring more tea, or getting up to "check the kitchen."

I was physically present, attentive to Meera, but my mind was elsewhere, locked entirely on Evric. Every thought, every heartbeat, was for him: for seeing him, for being with him. Even here, with Meera, he was all I could think about.

It was late, long after the moon was high, that her breathing finally became deep and even. She was genuinely asleep. I slowly, meticulously, withdrew my hand, my muscles stiff and aching from the forced proximity. I crept out of the room, leaving Meera to the solitude she had desperately fought to escape all day. I had survived her drama, but I had lost precious time. Friday was tomorrow, and the DNA sample had to happen.

The next morning, I woke before dawn. I needed to move with absolute precision. I prepared a simple breakfast of oatmeal and berries, along with a hot cup of herbal tea, setting it on the dining table. When Meera finally emerged, freshly showered and dressed in a comfortable shirt and sweatpants, I was waiting for her.

"Good morning," I said neutrally, serving her the food.

"Thank you, Zayn," she murmured, accepting the plate.

I watched her eat a few spoonfuls, waiting until her energy levels seemed restored. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Much better, thank you," she confirmed, offering a small, grateful smile. "The cramps finally eased up."

The silence stretched for a few moments, the only sound the clinking of her spoon against the bowl. It was now or never. I took a deep breath.

"Meera," I began, keeping my voice level and calm. "Now that you’re feeling better, we need to discuss a path forward. I want to move ahead with the DNA test. And not only that, I want to meet my son as soon as possible, regardless of the DNA."

Her eyes, which had been soft and appreciative moments before, immediately flew up, wide with shock and offense. "Why do you want a DNA test, Zayn? Don’t you trust me? Are you doubting me after everything I’ve told you?"

I pushed the guilt aside. "I’m not doubting you, Meera," I replied, maintaining a firm but gentle tone. "I just want to be sure. We are talking about a lifetime commitment here, Meera. I need definitive proof so I can move forward with confidence and secure the child’s future. It’s about being responsible, not doubtful."

She huffed, stabbing her oatmeal with the spoon. "Fine," she snapped. "Let’s do it. You want proof? You’ll get proof."

The hardest part was over. Now for the second, necessary cruelty.

"Good," I said, nodding once. "And I also want to tell you this now, before the result is confirmed. If the child is mine—which I truly hope he is—I will take full, financial, and emotional responsibility for him. I will be his father. I will arrange support, childcare, and whatever else is necessary for his well-being."

I met her challenging gaze head-on. "But I will not, under any circumstances, be getting back with you. I need you to understand that, Meera."

She stared at me, her face pale, the spoonful of oatmeal forgotten. "What did you just say?"