Page 140 of Cruel Demands

“He would never forgive you.”

“No.” She says it without hesitation.

I stare at her. “Why?”

Nikita looks toward the windows. The gardens beyond them are pale beneath a gray sky. The walls are too far away to see from here, but I feel them anyway. “Because once,” she says, “no one gave me the choice.”

I close my fingers around the paper bag.

Mikhail’s at work. It’s still morning. I have close to eight hours to take these tests, so why does it feel like I’m against the clock?

The bathroom upstairs is warm and painfully bright. Nikita waits outside the door. I can see the shadow of her shoes beneath it. The first test rests on the marble counter. It is a small, ordinary piece of plastic. I hate that something so cheap can divide a life into before and after.

I read the instructions twice. Then a third time. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop it. When I’m done, I place the test flat beside the sink and set the timer on my phone.

Three minutes. I sit on the edge of the bathtub. My knee bounces. I try not to think about Mikhail. I think about him anyway. The way he looked at me in the kitchen while I laughed with his mother. The way his hands moved over piano keys.

Would he be happy? The thought scares me more than his anger would.

He would be happy. Not simply pleased. Possessively, terrifyingly happy. A child would give him a reason to build higher walls. A reason to choose for me. A reason to never let me become temporary.

My phone buzzes. I don’t move. The sound stops. The bathroom is silent again.

“Taylor?” Nikita asks through the door.

“One second.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine.

I stand. The distance between the bathtub and the sink feels enormous. I cross it anyway.

For one last moment, I don’t look. I stare at my own reflection. Pale face. Messy hair. Eyes too wide. I look like a woman waiting for someone else’s life to begin.

Then I lower my gaze. Two lines.

Clear. Unmistakable.

Positive.

I grip the edge of the sink. The world does not change. The lights stay on. The pipes hum quietly in the walls. Somewhere downstairs, a door closes.

But everything is different. Everything.

There’s a soft knock. “Taylor?”

I open the door. Nikita is standing there. She looks at my face, then at the test in my hand. Neither of us speaks.

I press my palm against my stomach. There’s nothing to feel. No movement. No proof except two pink lines and the sudden, impossible certainty that I am no longer alone inside my own body.

Nikita reaches for me. I let her. The test remains clutched between my fingers as she pulls me into her arms. Over her shoulder, I stare down the long corridor toward the staircase. Toward the front doors. Toward the room where Mikhail will find me when he comes home.

Positive.

The word beats through me with my pulse.

Positive.

Positive.

Positive.