Page 130 of Nine Months to Bear

So I sink to the floor, back against the cabinet. The tiles are cold through my nightgown. At some point, I give up and curl sideways on the bathmat, knees pulled to my chest, cheek against terrycloth. Not comfortable, not really—but better than the guest bed.

The bathroom hums faintly with the heating vent. My eyelids sag, heavy as lead. I doze in fits, jerking awake every time my stomach clenches or a house-settling creak makes me think of footsteps.

Hours pass like that. Snatches of half-sleep. A trickle of gray light sneaking around the blackout curtains. The taste of bile lingering no matter how many times I rinse my mouth.

By the time I force myself up, legs prickling with pins and needles, dawn has pushed through. My body aches from the tiles, but at least I survived the night without crawling back to that bed.

Stubbornness, I am thy master.

But now, it’s daytime—or close to it—and I need to get the fuck out of this bedroom.

The estate is quiet as I make my way to the kitchen. Security cameras track my movement—Stefan’s invisible eyes following me even when he can’t be bothered to look at me himself.

Coffee.That’s all I’m missing. I just need coffee.

The machine hisses to life, filling the kitchen with the smell of espresso. But instead of leaping for joy like it usually does, my stomach rebels.

I turn and yak in the nearest trash can.

Since when does coffee make me sick?

“Since never,” I mutter, dumping the untouched cup down the sink.

“Talking to yourself now?”

I spin around. Camille stands in the doorway, her victory rolls perfect despite the early hour, carrying a box of pastries.

“How did you get past security?”

“Taras let me in.” She sets the box on the counter. “After I promised not to seduce any more of Stefan’s men. Apparently, I’m a ‘distraction to operations.’”

“Camille—”

“Save it.” She holds up a hand. “I know that face. That’s your ‘I’m fine but actually dying inside’ face. Dispense with the lies and tell me what’sactuallygoing on.”

“There’s nothing to?—”

“Olivia Aster, I am not to be trifled with. Either you tell me what happened, or I start making assumptions. Loud assumptions. In front of Stefan’s entire security team.”

I sink onto a barstool. “He made it clear what I am to him.”

“Which is?”

“‘A glorified oven.’ His exact words.”

Camille whistles low. “Harsh. Even for an asshole like him.”

“He’s not—” I stop. Because he is, isn’t he? What is he if not that? “It doesn’t matter what he is. I knew what this arrangement was. I just… forgot.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Camille opens the pastry box, pulling out a chocolate croissant. “You didn’t ‘forget’ anything. You made a calculated decision to save your clinic, and now, you’re having feelings about it.”

“I sold myself, Camille.”

“No, you made a choice. That’s all.” Camille tears off a piece of pastry and offers it to me. “But that’s not really what this is about, is it?”