Page 139 of Cruel Demands

I stop arguing.

“When did you first sleep with my son?”

I choke on air. “I am not discussing that with you.”

“Then I will estimate.”

“There is no need to estimate.”

“Nearly six weeks ago?”

I stand so abruptly that my chair scrapes against the floor. “This is insane.”

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Taylor.” Her voice is not loud. It does not need to be.

I remain standing. My heart is beating too fast. “This is stress,” I say. “That’s all.”

“It may be.”

“It is.”

“Then there is no reason to be frightened.”

“I’m not frightened.”

Nikita looks at me with something almost like pity. I hate it.

“We were careful.”

Nikita’s face softens. “Careful is not impossible.”

I look down at my phone again. Sixteen days late? My stomach turns, but this time I don’t know whether it is nausea or panic.

Nikita rises. She comes around the table slowly, as though approaching an animal that might bolt, and gives me the bag again. “Just…take them and see.”

“Them?”

“I bought three.”

“Why three?”

“Because one can be wrong, and two can disagree.”

Despite everything, a breath of laughter escapes me. It sounds close to hysteria. “What happens if it’s—they’re—positive?”

“That is for you to decide.”

“Mikhail will decide.”

“No.” Her voice cuts through mine. “He will believe he should. That is different.” Nikita takes my hand. Her fingers are cool and firm. “If you want to leave, I will help you.”

The words settle heavily between us. I pull my hand back. “He’s your son.”

“Yes.”