I wonder what she’d say now. If she’d be horrified that I may be pregnant by a mob boss, that I’d been pulled even deeper into the world that had cost her and the rest of our family their lives.
My phone timer beeps. My hand shoots to the test, and I hold it in front of my face.
Two lines. Two lines that are immediately visible. I stare at them for a long time before picking up the second test. I take it and wait.
This time the wordpregnantappears in the window. No mistaking what that means.
I set both tests down on the edge of the sink and press my hands over my mouth.
I’m pregnant with Gabriel Moretti’s child.
In the middle of all of this insanity—the council, Kolya, my newfound identity—there is a baby.
Mybaby.
A sob escapes me. Then another. I slide down against the wall, sitting on the cold tile.
I have no idea what to do.
Do I tell him? Do I not tell him? Do I wait until this mess is somehow solved? Until Kolya is dealt with? Until I know whether or not I’m going to survive the next month?
Until I know if he actually loves me?
What if this changes everything? What if he decides that a baby is too much to deal with? What if he decides he doesn’t want to be a part of the child’s life?
Everything is in his hands. I feel powerless in a way that makes me ill.
“Thea?”
I freeze. It’s Amanda’s voice outside the bathroom door.
“I knocked at the bedroom door,” she says. “It was open. I just wanted to check on you before I—” A pause follows. “Are you in there?”
Part of me wants to say nothing. But then it hits me that it would be the single most immature way to handle the situation. Besides, what if she’s being genuine? What if Amanda truly wants to help?
“I’m here.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Just give me a sec?—“
The door is opening before I can finish my sentence. Amanda steps in and looks at what’s on the counter. Her expression goes through multiple changes in two seconds.
I look up at her from the floor, saying the only thing I can.
“Please don’t tell him. Please.”
She just stares at me.
“Thea—”
“Please. I need time to process this. I need to figure out how the hell I’m going to tell him. Please, Amanda. Don’t say anything.”
She leans against the doorframe. Her expression is impossible to read, and I have no idea if she’s mad or sympathetic.
Then she sighs, crouching down to my level. Her perfect outfit, her perfect hair, her perfect composure are a total contrast to the mess that I am at that moment.
“How far along do you think you are?” she asks quietly.
“I don’t know. Probably a month. Maybe more.”
She glances away, and I can see her doing the mental math in her head. More than a month—she seems to understand—means that Gabriel and I were sleeping together for nearly the entirety of me being here. But if she’s jealous or upset, she doesn’t show it.