Page 97 of Cruel Obsession

The rejection stings, but I push past it. “I really need those supplies, Arkady.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fine. Take the staff car. Be back within the hour.”

“Thank you.” I turn to leave before he can change his mind.

“Mirabel.”

I pause at the doorway, glancing back.

“Be careful.”

“Sure.” I nod and slip away, convinced that any moment he’s going to stop me in my tracks and tell me that he knows.

***

The pharmacy feels too bright, too exposed. I grab cleaning supplies I don’t need—disinfectant, glass cleaner, sponges—and add them to my basket to validate my story. Then, heart hammering, I slip down the feminine products aisle.

The pregnancy tests stare back at me, row upon row of options promising 99% accuracy, early detection, clear results. I grab two different brands, burying them under the cleaning supplies. My hand shakes as I pay, nodding at the cashier’s generic smile, grateful she doesn’t look too closely at my purchases.

Get a grip, Mirabel.

She doesn’t care.

The shopping bag sits on the front seat beside me as I make the journey back. I barely notice the passing scenery, and for once, I’m not overwhelmed by the sheer size of the mansion as I half jog up the stairs to the front door.

I get to my room, thanking all the gods I can think of that nobody stops me on the way, then run straight to the en suite, and sit on the edge of the bathtub, test in hand. For a full minute, I stay frozen, staring down at the packaging.

Come on, come on.

Just get it over with.

I take a deep breath and follow the instructions, then set the stick on the counter. The wait feels eternal. I pace the small bathroom, counting seconds in my head, fighting the urge to look too soon.

When I finally pick it up, my hands tremble so badly I nearly drop it.

Two.

Pink.

Lines.

Positive.

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. I grab the second test, repeating the process exactly as the instructions tell me, as if doing it perfectly might change the outcome.

It doesn’t.

Two. Pink. Lines.

Pregnant. With Arkady Laurov’s child. The man who makes killers tremble. The man whose bed I’ve shared. The man who absolutely, categorically never wants children. The evidence stares at me like an accusation.

Oh God.

My life is over. Or just beginning. Or both.

I sink to the floor, back against the tub, staring at the test in my hands. How is this even possible? I’m on the pill. Did I miss one?

Shit.