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The bathroom's subtle floral scent, usually so pleasant, now makes my stomach roll threateningly.
"Fuck," I whisper. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
My whole body trembles as I push myself up, legs unsteady as I make my way to the sink. The woman in the mirror looks like a stranger—pale face, wide eyes, absolute terror barely contained.
Think, I order myself, splashing cold water on my face.Think like a professional.
But for once, my training fails me. There's no con artist manual for this situation. There’s no chapter on what to do when you're pregnant with your mark's baby while working for people who might want him dead.
The Fioris. My hand flies to my still-flat stomach.
I slide down the bathroom wall, drawing my knees to my chest. The cold marble grounds me as I try to think past the panic clawing at my throat.
The meeting is in less than an hour. I should be figuring out what to tell them, how to play this to keep everyone safe.
Instead, all I can think about is a baby with Stefano's blue eyes and my dark hair. A child born into this world of shadows and secrets. Born into a life I swore I'd never pass on to another generation.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—the regular one, not the burner. It’s another text from Kira.
>> You ok for tonight's shift? New routine rehearsal at 6.
I haul myself up, legs steadier now. The nausea has subsided to a dull roil, manageable if I breathe carefully.
In the mirror, I watch my face transform, color returning, fear carefully masked, walls rebuilding. The scared woman disappears, replaced by the professional I was trained to be.
But my hand stays on my stomach, a silent promise to the future I never planned.
I need more time.
My hand reaches for the burner phone once more and I type a convincing excuse for postponing the meet. It takes a full minute before I get a response, but they accept the change.
Relieved, I take one step toward the door, and that's when the second wave hits—this one stronger than the first, a violent reminder that my body isn't my own anymore.
The room spins, marble tiles sliding in and out of focus as I stumble.
My knees buckle. I try to catch myself on the counter, but my fingers slip against the polished surface. The floor rushes up to meet me, and I barely manage to turn my head before everything in my stomach makes a reappearance.
Get up, I tell myself.Get up before he hears.
But my body has other plans. The cool marble presses against my cheek as another wave of nausea rolls through me. My hair falls around my face like a dark curtain, and I can't even find the strength to push it back.
Somewhere in the penthouse, a door opens. Footsteps approach.
But I can't move. Can't think. I can only press my burning face against the cold marble and pray for the room to stop spinning.
CHAPTERTEN
Stefano
The soundof retching makes me walk faster into the room. It’s a harsh and desperate noise echoing from the master bathroom.
My body moves before my mind fully understands, years of threat assessment turning into something else entirely when I find Ava curled against the marble floor.
She looks small there, vulnerable in a way that makes something twist in my chest. Her skin has gone pale, dark hair sticking to her sweat-dampened neck.
"Don't," she manages when I step closer, trying to wave me away. "I'm fine."
Stubborn, beautiful fool.