Page 204 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

But it was hers.

I could see that the moment I pulled up to the curb. The way the porch light glowed warm against the evening dusk. The way the curtains in the front window were already hung—simple, white, clean. The way the small potted plant sat beside the front door like a declaration.

I live here. This is mine.

She moved in fast as hell.

I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, my hands gripping the steering wheel, my left leg throbbing with a dull, insistent pain that radiated from the graze wound up to my hip.

Winston’s bullet had been a message.

A reminder.

A warning.

And it had worked.

Because sitting here, staring at Truth’s house—at the life she was building without me—I felt the trap closing in tighter.

I was a weapon he’d forged.

But now I was a weapon he couldn’t fully control.

And that terrified him.

Which meant it should terrify me.

I exhaled slowly and opened the car door, stepping out onto the street. My leg buckled slightly under my weight, and I gritted my teeth against the sharp spike of pain. The wound wasn’t serious—Dr. Arceneaux had cleaned and bandaged it, given me antibiotics and painkillers I hadn’t taken because I needed to stay sharp—but it was a constant reminder of what Winston was capable of.

Of what he was willing to do.

I limped up the walkway to the front porch. Each step sent fire through my leg. I wasn’t going to let her see how much it hurt. I wasn’t going to let her see the weakness.

But even as I thought it, I knew it was a lie.

Because Truth saw everything.

She always had.

I knocked on the door—three sharp raps—and waited.

Footsteps inside. Light, quick. Then the door opened, and there she was.

Truth stood in the doorway wearing a loose cotton dress that fell to her knees, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, her face free of makeup. She looked tired. Fragile. But beneath that fragility was something else.

Steel.

“Amai.” Her voice was neutral, guarded. “What are you doing here?”

“You told me to meet you,” I said. “So I’m here.”

She hesitated, then stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in.”

I walked past her into the house, and the first thing I noticed was the smell—fresh paint, new carpet, something floral and clean. The living room was sparsely furnished—a couch, a coffee table, a lamp in the corner. But it washers. Every piece of it.

She closed the door behind me and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re limping.”

“I’m fine.”