Chapter 6

Olivia's POV

The room was quiet, save for the steady ticking of the clock mounted on the far wall. My gaze drifted out the window, past the gauzy curtains that swayed gently in the breeze. The forest stretched endlessly, its lush green leaves shimmering under the golden sunlight. It looked so peaceful, so different from the storm raging inside me.

Ryan’s voice broke the silence, steady and sure. “The restrictions weren’t put in place to punish anyone,” he explained, his tone measured. “They’re to prevent situations where people use a child to manipulate or trap me.”

I turned my head slightly, watching him from the corner of my eye. He sat at the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed but his eyes focused, as if he wanted to make sure I understood every word. He wasn’t like the men I’d grown up around—rash, selfish, unreliable. Ryan thought things through, weighing his actions and their consequences. It was... admirable, in a way. But it didn’t change the decision I’d already made.

“The child’s background doesn’t matter to me, Olivia,” he added. “It never will. All that matters is giving them the best life possible.”

I shifted on the bed, my fingers gripping the fabric of my dress. His words should have comforted me, and in some ways, they did. But they also brought a deep ache to my chest.

“I know you’re a good person,” I said softly, barely above a whisper.

Ryan’s head tilted slightly, his brows knitting together. “Then why do I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”

I sighed, my eyes returning to the forest outside. The sunlight dappled the ground, creating shifting patterns that reminded me of fleeting moments of happiness—bright, but never permanent. I couldn't seem to trust him knowing well he has no plans for me after I would birth the child. I'm only going to be a surrogate and will possibly have nothing to do with my child again. That hurts but I've already made a decision.

“Alpha Ryan,” I began, my voice trembling despite my best efforts, “I know you’ll be a great father. And I know this child will grow up in a better environment here than I ever had. That’s why... that’s why I can’t stay.”

His silence was immediate and deafening. I didn’t dare look at him, but I felt the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting.

“Can’t stay?” he repeated, his voice quieter now, almost as if he was testing the words for the first time. “Olivia, what are you saying?”

I forced myself to turn toward him, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it. “After the baby is born, I’ll leave. It’s the only way I can ensure they have the best chance at life.”

His jaw tightened, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something close to anger in his eyes. But it wasn’t the kind of anger that scared me. It was frustration, laced with confusion.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he said finally, his tone sharper now. “Why would you leave your own child? Why would you think that’s what’s best for them?”

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. How could I explain something so deeply rooted in my heart, something that had shaped my every decision since the moment I found out I was pregnant?

“It will be best that way,” I said, my voice cracking. I knew it would. I didn't want to end up being the same person I disliked - my very irresponsible father.

I’ve seen too many men, Fathers who walk away without a second thought, leaving their children to fend for themselves. I swore I would never be like that. I won’t be an irresponsible parent. And if staying means risking becoming someone who can’t give this child everything they deserve, then I’d rather leave.

Ryan stared at me, his eyes searching mine as if he could find the answer he wanted hidden somewhere there. I held his gaze, refusing to back down, even though every second felt like a battle.

“You know you can stay,” he said finally, his voice firm but gentle. “You’re better than that.”

His words were kind, too kind, and they made the ache in my chest spread like wildfire. I wanted to believe him, but the fear was too deeply ingrained.

“I can’t take that chance,” I whispered, my hands twisting in my lap. “There's not going to be any reason for me to stay. Will there?"

He looked at me, momentarily speechless and it seemed to heightened my doubts.

"I thought as much,” I mumbled.

Ryan reached out then, his fingers brushing against mine. The warmth of his touch was startling, and I looked down at our hands, unsure of what to do.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I’m here. I’ll support you, no matter what. You don’t have to leave to give this child a good life.”

His sincerity was almost too much to bear. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes, but I blinked them away, refusing to let them fall.

“This isn’t about you, Alpha Ryan,” I said, pulling my hand back gently. “It’s about me. About what I can and can’t do. And I can’t risk staying, not when there’s a chance I’ll fail them.”

Ryan stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re not making sense,” he said, pacing a few steps away before turning back to me. “You love this child—I can see it in the way you talk about them. So why would you walk away?”

I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I looked out the window again, at the forest that seemed so full of life and possibility. Maybe that’s what I wanted for my child—a life full of possibility, free from the shadow of my own insecurities and shortcomings.

Finally, I turned back to him, meeting his gaze head-on. “Because sometimes, loving someone means letting them go.”

The room was quiet except for the faint sound of my breathing and the soft clink of the spoon in the soup bowl. My palm throbbed, a sharp reminder of my recent misstep, and as I reached for the bowl to steady it, the dull ache turned into a sharper sting. I winced and quickly withdrew my hand, trying to mask my discomfort with a deep breath.

“Here, let me,” Ryan said, his voice calm but insistent. Before I could protest, he reached across the table, his hand brushing mine as he took the bowl. His touch was brief, but it left behind a strange warmth, one that felt both foreign and comforting.

“It’s fine,” I murmured, averting my gaze. “I can manage.”

Ryan arched a brow, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “You’ve already proven you can’t,” he replied, lifting the spoon with practiced ease. “Let me help.”

There was no arguing with him. He seem to have a way of stating things so firmly it left no room for negotiation. I opened my mouth to refuse again, but the first spoonful of soup was already being brought to my lips. I sighed, giving in, and took the sip.

The soup was warm and rich, but the taste barely registered. My mind was elsewhere, a storm of emotions brewing inside me that I couldn’t seem to tame. Ryan offered another spoonful, and as I leaned forward to take it, the pressure in my chest swelled. I blinked rapidly, hoping to hold back the tears threatening to spill, but it was no use.

A tear slid down my cheek, warm and uninvited. I quickly turned my head away, my hand flying up to wipe it away before Ryan could notice. But he wasn’t blind.

“Olivia,” he said softly, his voice laced with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I replied too quickly, my voice trembling. “It’s just the hormones. They make you... emotional sometimes.”

Ryan didn’t look convinced. He set the spoon down, leaning slightly closer. His gaze was steady, piercing even, as if he were trying to unravel the mess I had become over the past few days.

“Are you sure it’s just that?” he asked.

I bit my lip and nodded, my hands fidgeting in my lap. But the tears wouldn’t stop. They came faster now, slipping down my cheeks despite my best efforts to hide them. My chest heaved, and before I knew it, I was crying in earnest, the weight of everything finally crashing down on me.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I lowered my head, pressing the heel of my uninjured hand to my eyes, desperate to stem the flow. “It’s been... a lot. Too much, actually.”

Ryan didn’t say anything at first, and the silence stretched on, making me feel even more exposed. I hated this—hated being vulnerable, hated showing weakness in front of him. But there was no stopping it now. The fear, the anxiety, the hopelessness of the past few days—it all came pouring out.

I thought of the nights spent running, the shadows that always seemed to follow me. The sharp pang of fear every time I heard a footstep too close or a voice calling my name. The crushing despair when the hospital bills piled up, and I couldn’t see a way out. And now, here I was, in Ryan’s home, crumbling under the weight of it all.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” I muttered, more to myself than to him. “I don’t belong here.”

When I finally looked up, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I expected to see pity in Ryan’s gaze. Instead, I found something else entirely—something I couldn’t quite name. He reached into his pocket without a word, his expression unreadable.

I frowned, confused, until he held out his hand. Nestled in his palm were two small pieces of candy, their glassy wrappers catching the sunlight streaming through the window.

“What’s this?” I asked, my voice still thick with tears.

“Candy,” he said simply, as though it explained everything.

I stared at him, then at the candies, my mind struggling to process the gesture. Ryan wasn’t the kind of man I associated with sweetness or sentimentality. He was practical, straightforward, even a bit brusque at times. And yet here he was, holding out these tiny, sparkling tokens of comfort as if they were the answer to everything.

“I don’t understand,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

Ryan’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that softened the hard lines of his face. “Sometimes, a little sweetness helps,” he said. “Go on, take them.”