Chapter 4

Just before sunrise, a wave of cold hit me, followed by a punch of nausea in my gut.

I stumbled to the bathroom, hunched over the sink, and dry-heaved until my eyes were streaming.

Cramps tore through me. I gripped the counter, and a horrible thought hit me.

My period was two weeks late.

Shaking, I yanked open the drawer under the sink and dug out a test strip I'd stashed there ages ago.

The three minutes of waiting felt like a march to the electric chair.

Two red lines started to show.

One.

Two.

I'm pregnant.

Of all the goddamn timing.

Then Dante walked in. His eyes locked on my right hand before I could hide it.

"You're pregnant?"

I pinched my own hand and gave a numb little nod. "Yeah."

He crouched down slowly. It was the first time in two days he’d actually looked me in the eye.

""Whose is it?""

My whole body jerked. I thought he was messing with me. "Yours. Obviously. *Ours.*"

He was quiet for a long time.

"Let's do a paternity test."

My heart skipped a full beat.

"*What?*"

""Paternity test. If it’s mine, I’ll claim it.""

That day, I locked myself in the bathroom and threw up for a long time.

Not morning sickness. Disgust.

Three days later, on my way to the corner store, someone shoved me from behind. I hit the pavement hard.

I lost the baby.

The doctor said my body was already weak, and the stress and fall triggered a miscarriage.

I lay in the hospital bed and called him.

Twelve calls. Nobody picked up.

The thirteenth went through — his assistant answered.

"Mrs. Moretti, Mr. Moretti's in a meeting. Can I pass along a message?"

Two hours later, the assistant showed up at my door.

She set down a bag. Inside was a takeout container.

"Mr. Moretti asked me to bring this. He said to rest up."

I opened it. Cold takeout pasta.

Dante didn't show until 11 p.m. He walked in, smelled the disinfectant, wrinkled his nose.

""Gone?""

I nodded.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Quiet for a few seconds.

""Just as well. Now’s not really the time for a kid.""

He pulled out his phone, scrolled through emails, then patted my hand.

"Get some rest."

He left.

My phone buzzed. A text from my mom.

"Is Dante treating you right? Because listen to me, baby — if he ever mistreats you, you leave him. You just leave."

I stared at that message for a long time.

Then I typed back.

"Mom, I'm fine. Don't worry."

I turned the phone off and buried my face in the pillow.

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