And honestly? I might.
“Water. Maybe some chocolate. Or an alternate reality, if you’ve got one in the pantry.”
She smiles. That kind of smile people use when they know you’re spiraling but are too polite to ask. I nod anyway, needing the space.
When she disappears into the hallway, I move toward the dresser, the muscles in my shoulders tightening with each swing of the crutches. My left arm’s still sore from catching myself last week, and the padded grips are slick with just enough sweat to make them annoying. I’m still favoring the ankle I wrecked in the crash, and every movement sends a dull ache up my leg. It’s the kind of pain that’s settled in like a long-term tenant.
Beneath my socks, wedged under a bundle of receipts and a hairbrush missing half its bristles, is the plastic bag.
The test.
I pull it out with my good hand, fingers closing around it like it might bite. The plastic crinkles softly, stupidly innocent. My grip tightens until the edges press into my palm.
This is it.
The thing that turned my whole life into a countdown clock I didn’t know was ticking.
I stand there for a second, frozen. Then, I lower myself carefully onto the edge of the bed, biting back a wince as my ankle flares up.
Okay. Think.
Yelena doesn’t want him to know. That’s very clear.
My stomach twists, and not in the morning-sickness way. This is more of a holy-shit-I’m-growing-a-human-inside-me-and-everyone-around-me-might-be-a-psychopath kind of twist.
If I tell Konstantin, what happens?
Scenario A: He says we’ll deal with it together. Very mafia-father-knows-best vibes.
Maybe it’ll be okay.
Maybe he’ll even be… happy?
Okay, probably not happy, but at least not homicidal.Right?
Scenario B: He tells me this changes everything. He pulls out the marriage contract, rips it in half, and sends me packing—with a check and…
Or worse—he doesn’t want another baby.
That thought punches the air from my lungs.
I press a hand to my stomach without thinking, like I can shield it from even the idea. The pain of that possibility—that he’d choosenotto want this—hurts more than I can explain.
Shit. More than I want to admit.
I close my eyes. Breathe. Try to remember who the hell I was a month ago, before this house, before this deal, before Konstantin and his ghost-painting and his ridiculous mansion on the edge of the world.
Who made one stupid, reckless decision on one unlucky night… Who thought it was a good idea to lie down on a stranger’s bed, high, alone, turned on, and stare at a damn portrait like it was going to whisper sweet nothings back.
Jesus.
God!I want tacos. I want greasy, crunchy, melt-in-your-mouthcarne asadatacos with that lime crema and—
Wait, I can’t eat tacos. I mean, I can. But what if the baby hates spice? What if I eat something wrong, and it grows two heads? What if I already screwed it up by being too stressed?
Another text from Elena buzzes my phone.
ELENA:ARE YOU DEAD OR JUST IGNORING ME ON PURPOSE?
