A nervous laugh escapes me. “That sounds like something I would do.”
She smiles bigger now, that warm, steady version that reminds me of the older women at my mother’s church who used to sneak me hard candies during long services.
I look down at the bag as if it might bite. “I’m scared to know,” I admit quietly. “But I’m also scared not to know.”
“That makes sense,” she replies. “Either way, uncertainty will eat you alive. A result at least gives you something solid to stand on, even if it is rocky.”
She nudges the bag a little closer. “You can take it in the bathroom. I will wait out here, unless you want me inside for moral support.”
The idea of someone standing nearby while I pee on a stick makes my cheeks burn. “Out here is good,” I answer quickly. “Thank you.”
She nods, no offense taken, and hands me the water bottle. “Drink some first if you need to. Then follow the instructions. It is simple.”
Simple. Right.
I carry the bag into the bathroom and shut the door, leaning against it with my eyes closed. My breath comes in uneven pulls. I open the bag with clumsy fingers and take out the box, then the test, reading the instructions twice, even though they are straightforward.
Two lines. Pregnant.
One line. Not pregnant.
It should be something people can find out in peaceful bathrooms, with happy partners hovering in the other room. Instead, I am in a Bratva mansion with my sister in a concrete cell on my phone, and a man downstairs who has no idea I might be carrying his child.
My hands shake as I do what the instructions tell me to do. When I’m finished, I set the test on the edge of the sink and wash my hands, staring at the counter so I don’t fixate on the little window filling slowly.
Two minutes.
I hold the edge of the sink and think about anything else. Hope at seven, curled against me under a blanket fort, eating popcorn while some cartoon played too loudly. Hope at fifteen, rolling her eyes at the boy who spilled his coffee at the café while trying to flirt with her. Hope last month, pale in a hospital bed, fingers squeezing mine as she cracked a joke to keep me from crying.
She trusts me to fix this. To bring her home and keep both of us alive. If there is a baby now, that is one more person I have to keep alive in a world where powerful men think in terms of assets and collateral instead of human beings.
The timer on my phone buzzes softly on the counter where I set it. I jump again, then curse under my breath because my nerves are frayed to threads. I pick up the test with hands that don’t feel like mine. Two faint pink lines stare back at me.
My heart stutters, and everything goes silent. No hum of ventilation. No distant voices. No memory of Isaak’s eyes or Ray’s texts. Just those two lines.
I clutch the plastic so hard I am afraid I might snap it. “No,” I whisper, except it doesn’t sound like a refusal. It sounds like recognition. Like my body already knew, and my mind is finally catching up.
I’m pregnant with Luka’s child.
The realization hits in layers. Fear first, flooding every corner of my chest. Fear for the baby, for Hope, for myself, for what Luka will do when he finds out. Guilt follows right behind, because bringing a child into this mess feels selfish and reckless, even though it was never part of any plan.
Buried somewhere under all of that, so tiny I almost miss it, is something else. A fragile spark that could be hope, awe, or just disbelief that my body is capable of creating life at the same time everything else is falling apart. I blink hard until the test blurs, then wipe my eyes with the back of my wrist.
I open the door slowly. Anya stands the moment she sees my face. Her eyes move to my hand, still clutching the test. She doesn’t ask the result out loud. She doesn’t need to. Her shoulders soften, and she crosses the room in a few quick steps, taking the test from me gently and glancing at it only long enough to confirm what my face already told her. She sets it on the dresser, then turns back and wraps her arms around me.
I let myself fold into her, my forehead dropping against her shoulder. She holds me firmly, like she has done this before for someone else in some other disaster.
“I know this is not how you imagined finding this out,” she murmurs into my hair.
A broken laugh shakes out of me. “I didn’t imagine anything,” I confess. “I was too busy trying to keep my sister alive and my café open. Babies were for later. For someday when life wasn’t a constant emergency.”
“I understand,” she replies. “Life rarely respects our timelines.”
I pull back enough to look at her. “What do I do?” The question feels huge and small at the same time.
“First, you breathe,” she advises. “Then we make a plan. We can confirm with blood work downstairs in the clinic when you feel ready, but these tests are very accurate. You are early, which is why the lines are faint. You will need a doctor, prenatal vitamins, and rest when you can get it. We will handle those logistics.”
My heart skips quickly. “Luka…”
