Page 52 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

Every line the notary pointed to. My handwriting was even, deliberate. My hand did not shake.

Even here, even like this—this pen on this paper—was mine in a way almost nothing else had been.

The notary gathered the documents, tucked them back into the portfolio, and nodded to Amai. The petition was signed. Whatever came next—filing, processing, the slow legal machinery of it—was out of my hands. But the decision was made, and I’d made it standing up.

Amai picked up the bundle of clothes and set it on the table.

Then, he left.

The door closed. The lock engaged.

I picked up the clothes, held them against my chest, and stood there for a moment in the silence.

I crossed to the sink bolted into the corner wall and ran the water cold. I washed my face and my hands, did what I could with what I had, changed into the clean clothes with my back to the glass, and sat back down on the cot.

I noticed movement at the transparent wall.

Syx.

He was standing on his side of the barrier, hands pressed to the glass, his bruised face exhausted and earnest.

He was watching me with the same look he’d had in the doorway.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he said, his voice muffled but clear enough. “I promise.”

I looked at him for a long moment.

This boy who had offered me everything he had—his mother’s money, his clean record, his whole unburdened future—and gotten a broken rib and a cell for it.

“You can’t promise anything that has to do with Amai,” I said.

“I’m not making a promise about Amai.” He pressed his hand flat against the glass. “I’m making a promise about me.”

I put my hand against the glass on my side.

I kept my hand there and thought about the bag on my living-room floor—split zipper, money packed dense, a dead woman’s insurance policy sitting untouched because he hadn’t known what else to do with his grief until now.

“When we get out of here,” I said, “we move fast.”

Relief shifted in his face. Or the beginning of it.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.

I was already working on that.

Chapter 5

TRUTH

The waiting room was nothing like the fertility clinic.

No marble floors. No designer furniture. No intimidating glass walls that made you feel like you were being watched.

This was a professional medical building in the Tulane Medical District, all clean lines and modern efficiency. The waiting room had soft gray walls, comfortable seating, and a reception desk staffed by a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and silver-streaked locs. The sign outside read Dr. Camille Broussard, OB-GYN – High-Risk Pregnancy Specialist in elegant lettering.

I sat in one of the cushioned chairs near the window, my hands folded in my lap, trying to keep my breathing steady.

This was mine.