Mentioning his grandmother brought warmth to my chest. Mrs. Bernardi was a kind woman, over eighty but still sharp. This past month, whenever Marco was too busy with hospital shifts, I'd go take care of her, keep her company, just like I'd promised.
"Go sit down." I nudged him gently with my elbow. "The chef doesn't like being supervised."
He laughed—that gentle, reassuring smile. "Yes, boss."
Fifteen minutes later, we sat at the small dining table. Marco had found this table, along with all the furniture in the apartment. He said it belonged to a friend who wasn't using it, cheap rent. But I knew he was lying—rent in this neighborhood couldn't be that low, and all the furniture was new, complete with a washer and oven.
"Marco." I set down my fork, looking at him seriously. "Thank you. Really."
"Here we go again." He shook his head. "Elena, you've said thank you at least a hundred times this month."
"Because I owe you too much." I insisted. "You bought my ticket, used fake documents to get me on the plane, brought me to Italy, found me a place, helped me settle in."
"You don't owe me anything." Marco's voice cut through my thoughts. "Elena, we've known each other since we were eight. When your parents died, I watched you shoulder all their debtsalone. You worked three jobs to pay them off, sleeping five hours a night. I swore then that if I ever had the means, I'd help you."
His gaze was too serious, making me uncomfortable.
"Besides." He continued, voice lightening. "Haven't you been taking care of my grandmother this whole month? When I'm swamped at the hospital, you visit her, bring her favorite lemon cookies. So we're helping each other, right?"
"That's different—"
"It's exactly the same." He cut me off, raising his juice glass. "Come on, cheers to new beginnings. To our new life."
I clinked my glass against his. "To new life."
The orange juice's sweetness spread across my tongue, but suddenly my stomach lurched violently. The feeling came without warning, like a fist squeezing my insides. I set down my glass, taking a deep breath, trying to suppress the nausea.
"Elena?" Marco immediately noticed something was wrong. "You look pale. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I'm just—"
Before I could finish, the nausea hit like a wave. I shot up, rushing to the bathroom, kneeling by the toilet and dry heaving.
But nothing came up.
Marco knelt behind me, one hand gently patting my back. "Elena, feeling better? Food poisoning? Was that restaurant we went to for lunch not clean?"
"No." I gasped. "Not food poisoning. I... I don't know."
But a thought suddenly flashed through my mind—one that made my blood run cold. When was my last period? I tried to remember. The engagement banquet was Christmas Day. A week after that? Two weeks? I couldn't recall. This month had been too chaotic, too painful. I hadn't paid attention to anything.
But now...
"Marco." My voice was shaking. "I need to go buy something."
He immediately became alert. "What? Medicine? Are you sick? I'll take you to the hospital right now."
"Not the hospital." I stood and went to the sink to rinse my mouth. "The pharmacy. I need to buy a pregnancy test."
The air froze.
I watched Marco's face in the mirror. He went rigid like he'd been struck by lightning, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like he couldn't believe what he'd heard.
"Pregnancy test." He repeated. "Elena, are you saying you might be..."
"My period's late." I turned to face him, forcing myself to stay calm. "Two weeks, maybe three. I'm not sure—this month's been too crazy, I wasn't paying attention. But now with the nausea... I need to know for sure."
I saw his Adam's apple bob violently. His hands clenched into fists then relaxed, complex emotions flashing in his eyes—shock, anger, and something else.
