Page 44 of Pastel Kisses

My body tenses. I know those aren’t mine. There’s no name on them, no date. Just blurry images she could’ve pulled from the internet. But she’s grinning like she just handed me gold.

"He's going to see these," she says, a smile stretching so wide it looks like her face might crack. "And once he does, it’s only a matter of time. I'll be moving in with them soon. Into your house. So don’t expect me around much longer."

"You’ve said that before," I mutter, voice hoarse but steady. "Still here, though."

Her eyes narrow, but she quickly replaces the glare with a sickeningly sweet smile. "Well, these things take time. Men need... reassurance. But it's happening. He's asking questions now. He's interested. He wants to be involved."

I don't believe her. Not fully. Because if he really wanted her around, she wouldn't keep coming back here, desperate for a reaction, for control.

Still, her words dig deep, into the weakest parts of me where the shadows live. The places where doubt is fed by silence and solitude. Where the idea of them giving in—even temporarily—isn’t just painful, it's lethal.

"They’re never going to choose you," I say, meeting her gaze. "No matter how many lies you stack up."

She tilts her head, mock pity etched in every exaggerated expression. "Oh, sweetie. You keep saying that like it means something. But I’ve been in your house. Walked through your rooms. Sat on your couch. Opened your fridge."

My breath catches.

"They’ve repainted the kitchen," she continues, enjoying the shift in my expression. "Put up new curtains. Rearranged the living room furniture. And I suggested we plant roses out front—you know, to brighten the place up."

I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. She’s trying to unravel me. Twist the blade just a little deeper.

"Liar."

She shrugs, all nonchalance. "Believe what you want. But they’re rebuilding. Updating. Moving on. And when the baby comes, they’ll need a mother. A partner. Not some ghost they can't even find."

My lips press together, rage burning through my bloodstream. But underneath it, somewhere small and trembling, fear whispers.

What if she’s not lying?

What if she has been in my house?

What if they are starting over?

But no. I shake the thought from my head. The doubt is always there, scratching at the edges of my sanity, but I refuse to let it in. Not fully. Not today.

Because the truth is, if she was really winning, she wouldn’t still be standing here, taunting me.

"Get out," I rasp. "Go back to whatever fantasy you’re clinging to."

She smiles wider, taps the sonogram against her palm, and turns to leave.

"Sleep tight, mommy," she tosses over her shoulder, her laughter echoing up the stairs.

Once Sarah’s gone—her obnoxious perfume lingering like a bad omen—I eat the food she left behind. It’s cold, bland, and probably expired, but I shovel it down anyway. Hunger stopped caring about taste a long time ago. My stomach grumbles its disapproval, but I ignore it, focusing instead on the few precious bites of energy it gives me. I’ve learned to take what I can, when I can. That’s the only way to survive down here.

As soon as I finish, I drag myself off the bed, wincing as the shackle tugs at my ankle. The chain clinks with every step, a cruel reminder of my captivity. I do what I can—stretching my arms, rotating my shoulders, squatting with slow, aching precision—anything to keep my body from completely falling apart.

My ankle, though… it’s wrecked. Black and blue bruises wrap around the bone like a twisted bracelet, the skin rubbed raw where the metal bites in day after day. It stings constantly now, a slow-burning throb that never really fades. The only miracle is that it hasn’t gotten infected. Yet. Maybe it’s the cold, or maybe it’s sheer dumb luck. Either way, it’s one of the few small mercies I’ve been granted.

Since she found out I was pregnant, Sarah’s routine has changed. She feeds me every day now—actual food, even if it’s shitty—and she hasn’t taken the blankets away again. She thinks she’s caring for me. That she’s being “maternal,” or whatever twisted version of that word exists in her psychotic head. But we both know better. This is all about the baby. Her twisted leverage. The thing she thinks will anchor her to the guys forever.

She doesn’t care about me. I’m just the vessel. A walking, breathing, barely-functioning incubator.

Still, I use the blankets. I eat the food. I stretch and move and keep going. Because every tiny act of care I give myself, every inch of movement I manage, is one step closer to staying alive. To staying strong. For me. For my baby. And for the people I know are still searching for me.

The pain in my ankle is sharp, but it grounds me. Reminds me I’m still here. Still fighting.

And I won’t stop.

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