Carrying His True Loves Heir

The breaking news segment on Global News was interviewing a female war correspondent.

Clad in her tactical vest, she spoke softly about the man who was her anchor, the love who gave her courage—a physician with Doctors Without Borders. She described how he’d cross front lines for a fleeting moment together. Whenever her return was uncertain, he’d wait for her at the airport. The longest stretch? Three full months.

I was mesmerized, swept away by the sheer cinematic romance of it all. Love in a war zone.

Then I saw her again, late the night before my own wedding.

Her eyes were red-rimmed. She whispered her farewell to the camera: “You called me the courage you risked everything for… but I lacked the nerve to make you stay.” A faint, sad smile. “Still, I have no regrets. We owned each other’s entire youth.”

That was the moment her phone screen flashed on, an accidental slip of her thumb. And the image on her lock screen, the man kissing her—it was my fiancé. My groom-to-be.

1

Across the room, my blood didn’t just run cold; it froze solid. I turned my head, slow motion, toward the profile sleeping on the pillow next to mine.

The identical brow, the same faint crease at the corner of his mouth. The exact same impossible profession. It had to be Ronan. Who else?

But how? Ronan was the gold standard of modern manhood. Everyone said so.

He was the man who, on a rainy day, would carry me a full city block just to keep the tiniest drop of mud off my shoes. When my cycle hit, he didn’t spout platitudes about ‘drinking more tea.’ He’d just quietly cup my lower abdomen with his warm hand and silently take over every chore in the apartment.

For one desperate, ridiculous second, I wondered if he had a long-lost, never-mentioned identical twin.

I spent the rest of the night on the phone, calling every relative, every friend, the wedding planner, citing an urgent work crisis to postpone the wedding. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, smash three years of our life together based only on one photograph and a couple of tearful lines of confession. Not yet.

My best friend, Dee, heard the tremor in my voice. “Anya, did you and Ronan have a fight?”

“No,” I hesitated, then decided to tell her everything. As a seasoned journalist herself, she was exactly the kind of person who could help me.

After hearing the whole story, Dee was silent for a long moment. Finally, she said, soft but firm, “Don’t worry. I will find out the truth.”

We shared the bed that night, but we were a world apart. The moment Ronan woke up, he wrapped his arms around me, the softest edge of his voice laced with sleep.

“My bride is going to be the most beautiful woman in the city today, I guarantee it.”

I slipped out of his embrace subtly, my eyes drifting to the landscape oil painting he’d hung on the wall. I couldn’t help but ask, “When will you paint me, Ronan?”

He rubbed his early morning stubble against my cheek. “Babe, I told you, I only do landscapes. I don’t do portraits.”

A dull ache pressed in my chest. I remembered the interview. Sierra—that was the correspondent’s name—had shown the camera her lover’s collection. One hundred and ninety-nine paintings. Every single one of them was a portrait of her. The backdrops spanned from their hazy college days to the smoking craters of a combat zone.

My voice came out brittle. “My unit just called in an emergency deployment. We have to postpone the wedding.”

Ronan and I had met while I was deployed and he was a military medic. Now, the thought struck me: had he left the Army, become a Doctors Without Borders physician, and gone overseas just to be near Sierra?

If that was true, why was he marrying me?

Ronan’s throat worked a few times. “Honey, I know how important your job is, but couldn’t we just…”

I cut him off. “I’ve already notified everyone. It’s moved to next week.”

Hearing it was only a week’s delay, Ronan visibly relaxed. He turned and headed to the kitchen to make breakfast, his usual considerate routine.

Watching his familiar, attentive figure, I suddenly asked, the words barely a breath, “If I were killed in action, would you be sad?”

The motion of his hands stilled immediately. He turned to me, his gaze solid and earnest. “If you were killed, I wouldn’t last long on my own. I’d follow you to the end.”

Without the context of that interview, I would have thrown my arms around him and kissed him right then. But now, I simply watched him. “Do you know Sierra?”

A look I had never seen before—pure, gut-shot panic—flickered across Ronan’s face. He seemed poised to deny it, but finally, he just nodded.

Even with the icy dread already gripping me, the confirmation was like falling through a sheet of ice.

After a long pause, I forced the words out. “So, what she said about you two being together… is it true?”

“No!” Ronan gripped my hands, his own tense and shaking. “Where did you hear that? Sierra and I were just college classmates.” He rushed the words. “If there was anything ‘special,’ it’s that I helped her out. She came from a poor background, and I sponsored her tuition.”

Could it truly be Sierra’s own delusion, fueled by gratitude and misplaced affection? But something felt fundamentally wrong.

“Ronan, did you become a physician with Doctors Without Borders just to run into her in a combat zone?”

He let out a sigh of weary patience, an injured look on his face. “Sweetheart, you’re overthinking this. Yes, Sierra is a correspondent. Yes, we worked in the same country. But the odds of meeting on a battlefield are less than one in a million. Why would I risk my life for a coincidence?”

He playfully flicked my nose. “Are you just having pre-wedding jitters? Is that what this is?”

I couldn’t find a single crack in his explanation. Maybe it was just my own crazy suspicion.

Then, his cell phone rang. A long, unfamiliar international number. He listened for a moment, then rushed out of the apartment, forgetting even to say goodbye.

The doubts I’d just managed to suppress surged back.

I walked into Ronan’s study, a room I rarely entered. Now, I was possessed, frantically searching, though I didn’t know what I was looking for. The shelves were packed with medical texts, neat and clean. No sign of Sierra anywhere.

I almost laughed at my own ridiculous paranoia. Then, I accidentally clipped the oil painting on his desk.

My elbow clipped the corner, and the familiar oil painting on his desk crashed to the floor. The sound of the frame snapping was eclipsed by the sound of my own heart flatlining. Because the fall had exposed the canvas’s secret: hidden on the reverse side was a detailed portrait. A portrait of Sierra.

I clamped a trembling hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. The man who swore he couldn’t paint people had lied.

A cold, sick fury washed over me. Like a maniac, I rushed through the apartment, tearing apart every single canvas. The one over our bed, the one in the hall, the one in the living room—no exceptions. On the back of every single landscape was a hidden portrait of Sierra.