Page 96 of Dark Billionaire Stalker
The words hit harder than they should. I look away, blinking against the sudden sting of tears.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I wish I could explain. I just... I can't. Not right now."
Bea is silent for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice is softer, the anger replaced by something that sounds like fear.
"Are you safe, Poppy? Whatever this is, whatever you're caught up in—are you safe?"
I think about Gabriel's hands on my body, his voice in my ear, the way he looks at me like I'm something precious and fragile and entirely his. I think about the locked doors and the serpent carvings and the body I saw him standing over with blood on his hands.
"I don't know," I admit. "I honestly don't know."
The lunch is strained after that. We make small talk, pretend everything is normal, promise to see each other soon. When we hug goodbye, Bea holds on a little too long.
"Call me," she says. "Whenever you're ready to talk. I'll be here."
"I know. Thank you."
I watch her walk away, then turn and head in the opposite direction.
I have one more stop to make.
***
The pharmacy is in a neighborhood where no one knows me.
I chose it deliberately—far from the flower market, far from Café Roma, far from anywhere I might run into someone who could report back to Gabriel. The fluorescent lights are harsh, the aisles cluttered with products I don't need, the cashier a bored teenager who barely glances at me.
I find the pregnancy tests in the family planning section, tucked between the condoms and the ovulation kits. There are a dozen different brands, a dozen different promises of accuracy and speed and early detection. I grab the most expensive one—as if the price could somehow change the result—and carry it to the register with my heart pounding in my chest.
The teenager rings it up without comment. I pay in cash, shove the bag into my purse, and flee.
Outside, the city feels too bright, too loud, too full of people going about their normal lives. I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe.
I can't go back to the estate. Not yet, not with this. If I take the test there, someone will notice—the staff, Gabriel, someone. And I need to know before I face that conversation. I need to know what I'm dealing with.
I spot a coffee shop across the street—a small, anonymous place with a single-stall bathroom. Perfect.
I order a tea I won't drink and lock myself in the bathroom, my hands shaking as I tear open the package.
The instructions are simple. Pee on the stick, wait three minutes, read the result. Simple, clinical, as if the answer couldn't change the entire trajectory of my life.
I do what the instructions say. Then I set the test on the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me is a stranger. Pale skin, hollow eyes, lips bitten raw with anxiety. She doesn't look like someone who should be having a baby. She doesn't look like someone who should be making decisions about anything more significant than what to have for breakfast.
But here she is. Here I am.
The three minutes feel like three hours. I count the seconds in my head, then lose track and start over. I pace the tiny bathroom, four steps in each direction. I wash my hands twice, then wash them again just to have something to do.
Finally, finally, the time is up.
I pick up the test and look at the result.
Two lines. Clear and unmistakable.
Positive.
I'm pregnant.
