The thing was, Sophia did know. It was Oz’s own fault that he didn’t know much about her, her decidedly middle class upbringing, her rich bitch of a sister, the wealth the surrounded and sponsored her life’s passion this whole while. A bastard, a boy in particular, could spell disaster. So she knew. This hadn’t been what she set out to do, much less the route she thought their conversation would take (not that she thought too far ahead, what routes they would take). Anger and spite simmered in her blood now.

At the very least Oz gave way to her push, and she felt like she could take a deep breath again. None of this stopped how sick she felt. “Don’t,” she warned, eyes darkening as he mentioned her children. “Don’t pretend for a damn second that any of this is for mine or my children’s sake. You think I don’t know?” Now she was the one who scoffed, the air feeling tense enough to slice it with a knife and serve it.

“Do you think the risks are not abundantly obvious to me, as their mother?” Her children could suffer at first, but they were resilient. Her career would be over, at least here and now. Her time in London may come to a close as well, she never counted on her dalliance turning into the bloody Minister. She could even die, god knows her last birth was meant to be just that – her last. But the decision to keep this baby was meant to be hers, and hers alone.

Though Sophia had created distance between them, now she advanced on him. “I’ve blown up every part of my life before, you know. Twice. I’ve started from nothing, and have been left to put the pieces back together again all on my own.” First when she fled London and her engagement to a proper gentleman, again when she fled Russia after her husband’s demise. “If I must, I can do it again.”

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