The bathroom floor was colder than I remembered.
Or maybe it was just me.
I sat there with my back pressed against the marble wall of Adrian Blackwood’s mansion bathroom, the pregnancy test clutched in my trembling hand, my heart beating so violently it felt like it was trying to claw its way out of my chest.
Two pink lines.
Not faint.
Not questionable.
Not something I could pretend away.
Clear. Bold. Unforgiving.
Pregnant.
My breath hitched, and for a moment, the world tilted.
No.
This wasn’t possible. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
The contract had been clear. Clinical. Precise.
One year under his name.
A public marriage.
Shared appearances.
Shared bedroom only when necessary.
No emotions.
No complications.
No children.
Adrian had said that last rule himself.
