Page 130 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

It looked like a hotel room. Or an Airbnb rental.

I walked over to the dresser and pulled open the top drawer. Empty. I opened the second drawer. Also empty. The third drawer had a few folded towels—white, pristine, perfectly stacked.

Nothing else.

I moved to the closet and opened it. There were a few hangers with clothes—men’s clothes, expensive brands, all in Amai’s size. A black suit. A pair of jeans. A few shirts. But they looked like they’d been placed there for convenience, not because this was where he kept his wardrobe.

I ran my hand along the shelf above the hanging clothes. Dust. Not much, but enough to tell me this closet wasn’t used regularly.

I closed the closet door and stood there for a moment, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

Or rather, what Iwasn’tseeing.

This cabin was beautiful. It was expensive. It was well-maintained. But it didn’t feel like Amai’s home. It felt like a place he used. A utility. A safe house.

I left the bedroom and walked down the hallway, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. The hallway was lined with framed prints—generic landscapes, the kind you’d findat a furniture store. Nothing personal. Nothing that told me anything about the man who owned this place.

I passed the bathroom where I’d thrown up earlier. It was clean now—Amai must have wiped it down. The thought made my chest tighten, but I pushed it aside. I couldn’t afford to be distracted by his tenderness right now.

I needed to focus.

I moved into the living room. It was spacious and open, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the lake. The furniture was modern and comfortable—a large sectional sofa, a coffee table made of reclaimed wood, a stone fireplace with the bear rug in front of it.

The bear rug where we’d made love last night.

I forced myself to look away from it and focus on the rest of the room.

There was a bookshelf against one wall, filled with books. I walked over to it and scanned the titles. Classic literature. Business books. A few thrillers. They were arranged neatly, spines perfectly aligned, like they’d been placed there for decoration rather than reading.

I pulled one out at random—The Count of Monte Cristo. The pages were crisp, unmarked. It didn’t look like it had ever been opened.

I slid it back onto the shelf and pulled out another. Same thing. Pristine. Untouched.

These weren’t books someone read. They were props.

I moved along the shelf, running my fingers over the spines, and that’s when I felt it—a book that was slightly out of alignment with the others. I pulled it out.Meditationsby Marcus Aurelius.

As I lifted it off the shelf, something slipped out from between the pages and fluttered to the floor.

A photograph.

I bent down and picked it up, my heart beating a little faster.

It was a woman. Beautiful. Dark skin, long hair, full lips. She was smiling at the camera, her expression confident and knowing. She looked like the kind of woman who knew exactly how powerful she was.

I turned the photo over.

On the back, written in neat handwriting, was a single name:Yahmaria.

And below that, a timestamp. The photo was old—at least two years, maybe more.

I stared at the name for a long moment, my mind working through the implications.

Yahmaria.

An ex-girlfriend? A past lover? Someone important enough that Amai had kept her photo, but not important enough to display it openly?

I turned the photo back over and studied the woman’s face again. There was something about her—something in the way she looked at the camera—that made me uneasy. She didn’t look like someone who had been left behind. She looked like someone who was still in the game.