Page 164 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

His truck sat in its usual spot near the door, the one he actually drove most days, the one that smelled like him.

“This man got a whole car lot,” I muttered, walking the length of the garage with my arms crossed, looking from one to the next like I was in a museum I hadn’t paid admission for. Six figures easy in any direction I looked. Some of them looked like they’d never been driven past a red carpet. Some of them looked like they’d seen things I didn’t want to know about.

I ran my hand along the AMG’s hood, cool and smooth under my palm, and that decided it for me. I liked the way that car handled the couple times Amai had let me drive it just to see me smile. It didn’t feel like riding in a tank the way the Suburban probably did, and it didn’t feel like I was borrowing somebody’s museum piece the way the Rolls did.

I found the key fob in the little drawer by the door where he kept them all labeled, slid behind the wheel, and pressed the start button. The engine woke up with a low, controlled growl, more felt than heard, the kind of sound that promised power without needing to prove it right away. I backed out slowly, easy on the gas, watching the gate roll open ahead of me.

Before I pulled all the way onto the street, I glanced at the little tracking app Amai had set up on my phone, so I could see the detail’s movement without having to guess who was where. Two names came up, same as always—Reggie in the gray Charger two houses down, Marcus in the black Tahoe posted at the corner where the street curved. I recognized both cars on sight now, the way you learn to recognize your own neighbors’ cars without meaning to.

Yesterday, knowing men were watching me from a distance had felt like a leash. Today, after what came in that box, it felt different. It felt like two more people standing between me and whatever else might be waiting to test how thin our protection really was.

I pulled out onto the street and watched the Charger ease off the curb behind me in my mirror, unhurried, exactly where it was supposed to be, and let a little of the tightness in my chest loosen.

The drive to Dr. Broussard’s office wasn’t long, fifteen minutes if traffic behaved, and it didn’t behave, so I had extra time to sit with the radio low and my hand resting over my stomach. I felt nothing yet but knew there was so much happening under my palm that I couldn’t feel at all—cells deciding things, biology writing answers I hadn’t asked for but needed anyway.

Whatever waited in that office, I was about to know it.

By the time I hit St. Charles, I’d already caught three different people staring. One man damn near ran his bike into a streetcar pole, trying to keep his eyes on me instead of the road. I let the window down a crack, let the afternoon air move through the car, let the sun catch the diamonds in my ears the way it was supposed to.

The Mercedes-AMG rode like something out of a dream I didn’t know I was allowed to have—matte black, growling low, even at a stop, and I’d picked it on purpose over the Bentley or the Range Rover because this one made people look. I had on my dress that hugged everything pregnancy hadn’t taken from me yet, gold hoops big enough to swing when I laughed, and my hair laid so good I’d caught my own reflection twice just to admire it.

Behind me, two car lengths back, my detail kept pace—driving, unbothered, sunglasses on, doing sixty like it was nothing. I knew all their names. That had been part of the deal.

I glanced in the rearview and smiled at myself, just a little.

Girl, you were born for this muthafuckin’ life.

I didn’t know if that was true. But sitting in that car, dressed the way I was dressed, moving through the city like the I owned it—it felt true enough to enjoy for the drive to Dr. Broussard’s office.

I parked in visitor parking, let Marcus circle the block twice before he found a spot he liked, and walked into the building with my chin up and my bag on my shoulder like I had all the time in the world. The receptionist—Deja, sweet girl, always remembered my name—buzzed me back to the waiting area without me having to say a word.

“Dr. Broussard will call you back shortly, Ms. Renois,” she said.

I thanked her and took a seat near the window, crossing my legs, feeling good, feeling powerful, feeling like maybe—maybe—today was going to be a day where something finally went my way clean, no complications, no Landry chaos trailing behind it like smoke.

I should’ve known better. I always should’ve known better.

“Truth?” The nurse, Angela, poked her head out. “She’s ready for you.”

I followed her back, still riding that high, still feeling myself right up until I stepped into the exam room and saw Dr. Broussard’s face.

She wasn’t smiling.

Dr. Broussard had a way about her—warm, direct, the kind of doctor who told you the truth even when the truth wasn’t pretty, but always with her hand steady on your arm while she did it. Today, her hand wasn’t on my arm. Today she was standing by the counter with a folder closed against her chest like she was bracing herself before she even opened her mouth.

“Have a seat, Truth.”

The good feeling in my chest curdled quickly, the way milk goes bad before you even catch the smell.

“That bad?” I said, trying to keep my voice light while sliding onto the exam table anyway.

“Let’s talk first,” she said and pulled her rolling stool close, close enough that if I leaned forward, our heads would bump. “Before I show you anything.”

“Okay.” My heart was doing something ugly now, thumping high in my throat. “The babies are okay, right? Nobody’s—nobody’s in trouble?”

“Both babies are healthy,” she said immediately, and some of the air came back into my lungs. “Growing well. I checked before you even walked in, because I know that’s your first question every time, and it should be.” She paused. “This isn’t about their health. This is about the paternity tests you asked me to run.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay.”