Page 2 of Cruel Juliet

I tell myself I’m saving it for an emergency. That I’m being responsible, smart, careful. A good mother-to-be.

But if I’m honest, the reason it’s still there is pureguilt. Every time I think about using it, my chest twinges.

Because it’shis. Taking it feels like a thread tying me back to him, and I’ve been trying so damn hard to cut every one of those threads.

Still, guilt doesn’t pay the bills. It sure as hell doesn’t keep a baby in diapers. So I keep it tucked away, a nest egg I’ll dip into if I have to.

But not yet.

The porch steps groan under my weight as I climb them. One hand is fixed on the rail, because balance isn’t really my strong suit these days. I pause at the door and stare at the familiar chipped paint, the key already cold in my hand. For a second, I want to cry just from the relief of being home.

Tonight, the plan is simple: shoes off, sweaty clothes begone, maybe a bowl of cereal if I can make it that far without collapsing.

But then my brain does what it always does when it’s too quiet: It drags me back to him.

Petyr.

Thinking about the father of my child, even after all these months, still makes my chest ache. I hate that it does. That I still miss him so damn much.

Or maybe I just miss the version of him I thought was real. The man who could be gentle when he wanted to be. Who made me laugh when I didn’t want to and made me believe, for a hot minute, that I wasn’t just runningfrommy past, but runningtowardsomething better.

Sometimes, late at night when it’s just me and the sound of the ocean, I wonder if I ran too quickly. If maybe, just maybe, we could’ve worked through it. If we’d actually sat down and talked like two people instead of hurling threats at each other, maybe things could have been different.

Then I remember his cold voice.

He said he’d take my baby. He said he’d throw me back to my family like garbage, just as soon as he had what he wanted.

The memory still makes my stomach turn. I can’t forget that—or worse, forgive it.

I couldn’t risk taking the chance and being wrong. Not with my child’s life on the line. One mistake, one moment of misplaced trust, and everything could’ve been over before it started.

So I ran. And even if my chest aches when I think about him, even if I still dream about the way it felt to curl against him and almost believe we were real, I know I made the only choice I could.

I saved my baby.

And I probably saved myself, too.

When I reach my front door, I stop short.That’s weird.

The handle is turned just slightly. The door rests against the frame, but isn’t latched. For a second, my brain doesn’t process it.

Then my heart stutters hard in my chest, and my stomach drops all the way to my shoes. The air feels heavier. Wrong.

Unlocked.

The door is unlocked.

I stand frozen on the porch. One hand hovers inches from the knob. The other presses instinctively against my belly.

My eyes flick to the windows and scan for signs of movement. A shadow. A curtain swaying. Anything.

Nothing stirs. The porch light buzzes above me, too loud, too steady, as if mocking how silent everything else is.

I force myself to breathe, long and slow, though my pulse is hammering in my ears. “It’s fine,” I whisper to myself. “It’s fine. We’re fine.”

But my hand still won’t touch the knob.

I shake my head hard. I’m overreacting. That’s all this is. Pregnancy Brain is real, and I probably just forgot to lock it on my way out this morning. People forget things all the time.