Page 29 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

Every press of the gas pedal sent a sharp spike of agony radiating from the graze wound up through my thigh. The bandage I’d wrapped around it was already soaked through—I could feel the dampness against my skin, warm and sticky.

I should’ve gone home. Should’ve elevated the leg, taken something for the pain, let the wound heal properly.

But I didn’t have time for that.

Not when millions of dollars had vanished from our vault.

I parked in front of the main house and killed the engine, sitting in the darkness for a moment to gather myself.

The rage was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. But I needed to be strategic about this. I needed Winston to admit what he’d done. I needed him to understand the magnitude of his mistake.

And I needed to figure out how the fuck we were going to survive this war without the resources we’d been counting on.

I opened the door and stepped out, immediately regretting it as my injured leg took my full weight.

Pain exploded through my thigh—white-hot and vicious—and I had to grip the door frame to keep from collapsing.

“Fuck,” I hissed through clenched teeth.

I stood there for a moment, breathing through the pain, waiting for it to subside to something manageable.

It didn’t.

But I forced myself to move anyway, limping across the driveway toward the front entrance. Each step was agony. Each movement sent fresh blood seeping through the bandage.

By the time I reached the door, I was sweating despite the cool night air.

I didn’t bother knocking.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, my footsteps echoing through the marble foyer.

“Winston!” My voice was rough, edged with fury and pain.

No response.

I moved deeper into the house, my limp more pronounced now. The pain was making it difficult to think clearly, hard to focus on anything except the burning sensation radiating from my leg.

I found him in his study, sitting behind his massive mahogany desk with a glass of bourbon in his hand.

He looked up when I entered, his expression unreadable.

“Amai.” His tone was casual, like I’d just stopped by for a social visit. “I wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

“We need to talk.”

Winston took a slow sip of his bourbon, his eyes tracking my movements as I limped toward the chair across from his desk.

I didn’t sit.

Standing hurt like hell, but sitting would make me look weak. And I couldn’t afford to look weak right now.

“About what?” Winston asked, setting his glass down.

“The vault.”

Something flickered in his eyes—recognition, maybe, or guilt—but it was gone before I could identify it.

“What about it?”