The master bathroom of the Richason manor house in Manhattan was a bleak, vast hall of book-matched white Calacatta marble and brushed gold appliances, in overpowering light intensity by the powerful, unbreakable reflective force of the professional-style vanity mirrors. Nielle didn't move, her hands trembling and shaking against the cold stone surface of the floating double sink. The pristine silence of the penthouse was like a weight on her chest and her breath came in short, suffocating gasps.
A small plastic stick was lying on the marble counter, just next to an imported crystal perfume bottle.
There are two separate pink lines.
Positive.
A sudden, terrible panic came up from the depths of her stomach and choking the air out of her lungs. She clung to the edge of the sink and with
