Beatrice.
The plastic cup felt like a grenade in my hand—small, innocuous, capable of destroying everything.
I stared at it, then at Doctor Rosa's patient face, then at Louis who'd suddenly found the window fascinating. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in the pulse points behind my ears.
"I can't be," I whispered. "I can't be pregnant."
But my body had already given me the answer.
The bathroom mirror was unforgiving.
I stood there with that damned cup, staring at my reflection like it belonged to a stranger. Pale skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones. Dark circles carved deep beneath emerald eyes that had seen too much in too short a time. Hair that had once been carefully styled now hung limp and lifeless around my shoulders.
I look
