Ten days.
I’ve been so caught up in everything—work, the men, the life I’m building here—that I didn’t notice. Didn’t think to check or pay attention to my body’s rhythms because I’ve been too busy losing myself in theirs.
But now, sitting alone in my room while Grant handles business calls and Donovan works in his office and Kai does whatever Kai does, I can’t ignore it anymore.
I open the period tracker app I’ve used for years. The little red dot that should have appeared over a week ago is conspicuously absent. The app is practically screaming at me in concerned notifications I’ve not seen until now.
Your period is 10 days late. Log symptoms or mark as arrived.
My hand shakes as I close the app.
This can’t be happening.
Except it absolutely can be happening. We’ve been careful most of the time, but not always. And three men, multiple times a day for weeks? The math isn’t exactly in my favor.
I need to know for sure.
I wait until late afternoon when everyone’s occupied. Grant’s still on his call. Donovan mentioned going to check on something at the main resort. Kai’s been in the gym for the past hour.
I slip out of my room and head toward the medical wing.
The estate has its own pharmacy. Not a full hospital setup, but enough supplies to handle emergencies until real medical help can arrive. It’s in the basement level, past the wine cellar where I nearly bled out two weeks ago.
The hallway is quiet. Cold. I pull my cardigan tighter and keep walking.
The pharmacy door is unlocked. Inside, everything is organized with clinical precision. Medications. First aid supplies. Equipment I don’t recognize.
And pregnancy tests.
I find them on a shelf next to other diagnostic supplies. I grab one quickly, shove it in my pocket, and leave before anyone can find me here.
Now I need a bathroom. Not my room—too close to the private wing. Not any of the common areas where staff might interrupt.
I head to the old section of the estate. The parts Kai showed me weeks ago. The abandoned rooms that Grant’s still renovating.
I find a bathroom that looks functional enough. The fixtures are old but clean. The door locks.
I lean against the sink and pull out the test. My hands won’t stop shaking.
The instructions are simple.
Pee on the stick.
Wait three minutes.
Two lines means pregnant. One line means not pregnant.
Simple.
I follow the directions mechanically. Set the test on the counter. Start the timer on my phone. Three minutes.
I sit on the closed toilet lid and stare at the test.
What if it’s positive?
What if I’m pregnant with a baby—or babies, knowing my luck—for men I came here to destroy? Except I didn’t destroy them. I fell into bed with them. Fell in love with them.
Oh God. I love them.
