Page 93 of Nine Months to Love

I want to bind myself to her in every way possible. Legal. Emotional. Permanent. I’ll tattoo her name on my skin. I’ll cuffmy wrist to hers and throw away the fucking key. I want her name next to mine on documents. I want her in my bed every night for the rest of my life. I want to watch her belly swell with our child and know that she’s mine, that we’re building something real.

I push off the sofa and head for the door. I need to find her so I can fall to my knees and grovel for her forgiveness.

The hallway is empty. I take the stairs two at a time, heading for her room. When I reach her door, I knock.

“Olivia.”

No answer.

I try the handle. Locked.

“Olivia, please. I need to talk to you.”

Still nothing. Not even a sound from inside.

“I didn’t mean what I said. Any of it. I was... Fuck, I was angry about something else and I took it out on you.”

Heartbreaking silence.

I press my forehead against the door. “Please. Just let me explain.”

I can feel her on the other side of the door, but she’s not going to open it. Not tonight.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

I wait another minute. Then two. Nothing changes. Finally, I force myself to step back. She needs space. Time to process. The chance to decide if what I said is forgivable.

I head downstairs, my chest tight with regret.

The house is quiet. I check my watch. Nearly midnight. I should go to bed, but sleep feels impossible right now. As if he can sense my need to sink my teeth into something tangible, my phone buzzes with a call from Taras.

I answer. “What?”

“We got into the house.”

I stop walking. “And?”

“She’s gone. Place was empty. Looks like she cleared out in a hurry, though. Left food in the fridge, clothes in the closet.”

“Fuck.” I run a hand through my hair. “How long ago?”

“Hard to say. Could be hours. Could be days.”

“She knew we were coming.”

“Looks that way.”

I lean against the wall and close my eyes. Of course she did. My mother has always been three steps ahead. She’s had fifteen years to perfect the art of disappearing.

“Keep looking,” I tell Taras. “Check her known associates. Anyone she might run to.”

“Already on it. I’ll call you if we find anything.”

He hangs up. I stand there in the hallway, phone in hand, frustration building in my chest like pressure in a sealed container.

My mother is out there somewhere. Planning. Scheming. And now, she knows about the baby.

Because Olivia told her.