Page 107 of Filthy Lies

A brother or sister for Sofiya.

Another human we’ll have to protect.

Another hostage for the world to snatch away.

The test slips from my numb fingers and clatters to the floor. I need to think, to process. But the walls are closing in, the reality of our life suddenly laid bare in all its ugliness.

My rose-colored glasses were shattered a long time ago. Since then, life has just stomped on the shards again and again.

This is our reality.

This is our child’s reality.

And now, potentially, another child’s.

The pregnancy test mocks me from where it’s fallen on the floor. Two pink lines that whisper,Here we go again,with all the subtle cruelty of a loaded gun pointed at my temple. A life sentence that I didn’t ask for, didn’t plan for, but somehow have been granted anyway. Again.

Life’s fucking hilarious that way.

I should be overjoyed, though, right? I mean, women spend fortunes trying to conceive. Somewhere out there, somedesperate soul is ready to sacrifice absolutely everything she’s ever had for the chance to feel what I’m feeling right now.

But all I can think about is Sofiya’s tiny body burning with fever in that hospital bed. Or Vince’s face carved from granite as he stationed armed men at every entrance, convinced our enemies had poisoned our baby. Or the weight of his tracking necklace against my skin, a collar disguised as jewelry.

Another baby isn’t just another baby.

It’s another target.

But this could be wrong, couldn’t it? Maybe morning sickness is a liar. This isn’t morning, and what I’m feeling isn’t just sick. It’s terror so absolute it practically has its own heartbeat.

I flush the toilet and scrub my face. The woman in the mirror doesn’t look like me anymore. She’s harder, sharper. Eyes that have seen too much. A mouth that’s spoken too many half-truths to ever be entirely honest again.

A knock on the door jolts me back to reality.

“Rowan?” Anastasia’s voice filters through. “Are you alright?”

I kick the pregnancy test under the vanity. “Fine,” I call back. “Just a minute.”

When I open the door, Anastasia stands there with Sofiya balanced on her hip. My daughter’s chubby cheeks are still flushed, but her eyes are clear, focused. She reaches for me with grabby hands.

“She was crying,” Anastasia explains, handing Sofiya over. “I thought you might want her.”

“Thanks.” I bury my face in Sofiya’s chubby neck and kiss her velvet skin. “She feels cooler.”

“The fever’s definitely gone.” Anastasia studies me, head tilted. “You, however, look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I force a laugh. “Just tired. It’s been a long few days.”

She doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way her perfectly shaped eyebrows draw together. “Tea? I just made a pot.”

I should say no. Should retreat to my room with Sofiya and sit in my spiral of fear alone.

But suddenly, the thought of solitude feels suffocating.

“Sure. Tea sounds nice.” I follow her to the kitchen, Sofiya on my hip.

The tea is some fancy Russian blend that smells like citrus and cardamom. Anastasia pours it with an easy grace that makes me feel clumsy in comparison.

Even after weeks of hiding out in our compound, she still manages to look like she’s stepped off a runway—hair perfectly styled, makeup flawless, posture regal.

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