Page 192 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

I pulled back and looked up at Syx, my vision blurred with tears.

“What if he’s right?” I whispered. “What if she really is different?”

Syx’s jaw tightened. “Then we’re all fucked.”

I nodded slowly, because that was the truth.

If Truth Renois really was different—if she really could hold Amai’s heart without breaking it—then everything was about to change.

And not in a way any of us could control.

I heard the shower turn on in Amai’s bathroom, and I knew he was washing away the evidence of wherever he’d been, whatever he’d done.

Washing away the old version of himself.

Preparing for whatever came next.

And I was left standing in the wreckage, trying to figure out how to survive in a world where I no longer mattered.

Where I’d never really mattered at all.

I pulled away from Syx’s arms, reality crashing back in.

“I need to go,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “Before he comes out.”

Syx’s hand gently caught my wrist. “Yaya?—”

“I can’t be in here when he leaves.” I looked at him, and something in my expression made him release me. “I just can’t.”

He nodded, understanding without needing explanation.

I grabbed my silk robe from where it had fallen near the bed and wrapped it around myself, tying the belt with shaking fingers. My hair was a mess—I could feel it. My lips were swollen. My throat still ached from where Amai had choked me.

I looked like exactly what I was: a woman who’d been fucked and then nearly killed in the same night.

I smoothed my hair as best I could and checked my reflection in Syx’s mirror. The bruises on my throat were already darkening—purple and blue fingerprints that would take days to fade.

Evidence.

I adjusted the collar of my robe to cover them and took a breath.

“Go,” Syx said softly. “I’ll wait.”

I slipped out of his room and moved down the hallway on silent feet, my heart hammering. Amai’s bedroom door was still closed, the shower still running.

I made it to my own room and closed the door behind me, leaning against it.

Safe.

For now.

I showered and changed into clean clothes—black leggings, an oversized sweater that covered my throat completely. I washed my face, reapplied minimal makeup, tried to look like a woman who’d spent the night alone in her room instead of tangled up with her husband’s cousin.

Then I waited.

I sat on the edge of my bed, listening.

The shower turned off.