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There’s a baby in here.

“Hello,” I whisper. “I’m going to be your mama.”

This morning, the cycle-tracking app on my phone notified me that my period was late. I wanted to wait to take the pregnancy tests until Julian got home, but I was scared.

If I wasn’t pregnant, I knew I’d get emotional.

I’d probably cry.

I didn’t want him to see that.

I was also excited as hell, and I’ve never been one for patience.

Julian is meeting with Yaroslav today to pay the balance of my debt.

That chapter with Dima is over.

No longer do I have to look over my shoulder, wondering if a crazy-ass, snake-tatted Russian will take me or kill me.

I grab my phone and sit on the closed toilet seat, speechless and trying to form words in my head. My hand shakes as I text Julian.

Me: I have the biggest surprise for you when you get home.

My phone beeps with his reply seconds later.

Julian: What’s that?

Me: You have to wait until you get home.

Julian: I don’t like waiting.

Me: Too bad. This might be your favorite, and I want to see your face when I tell you.

My response might give away the obvious, but oh well.

Even if he asks if the surprise is that I’m pregnant, I won’t tell him until he’s in front of me.

Tonight, I’m making dinner, and we havea lotto celebrate.

Emilio droveme to Safe Hearts today.

I’m teaching a quick class, and then I’ll have him take me to the grocery store and go home. Most of the day, I’ve been brainstorming how to tell Julian about our good news.

I’m in the restroom, washing my hands, when Sage rushes inside. She slams the door shut behind her, resting her back against it, and she’s trembling.

“Genesis,” she says, her breathing rapid as she bows her head, “I need your help.”

When she lifts her head, I gasp at the bruise under her right eye and rush over to her.

“Who did this to you?” I ask her.

“My stepfather.” She winces, as if in pain. “He beat my sister and me up. She’s outside but too afraid to come in. Will you please help me convince her to?”

I nod. “Let me go get Emilio.”

Unlike Julian, Emilio doesn’t sit in class while I teach. He either sits in his car out front or in the lobby. He regularly complains about shelter-sitting, as he likes to call it.

She nods, opening the door, but moves in the opposite direction of where Emilio is.