Page 87 of Porcelain Lies

“Was a mistake.” The words taste bitter.

“You wanted him. Still want him.”

I press my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind my lids. She’s right. Even now, remembering the way he claimed me, possessed me…

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” I whisper. “He’s dangerous. You heard what Nick said about him.”

“Yet you’re carrying his child.”

My hand drifts to my stomach. The reality of it hits me again — there’s a life growing inside me. Aleksei’s baby. The thought sends equal waves of terror and something else… something warmer.

“He needs to know.”

“I know.” The words come out barely audible. “But how do I tell a freaking Bratva boss that I’m pregnant after one night?”

Hannah’s note with his number sits on the coffee table, taunting me. One call could change everything. Or end everything.

“You can’t hide this forever.”

“Watch me,” I mutter, but I know that’s not reasonable.

I stare at Hannah’s hastily scribbled number, my thumb grazing over my phone’s keypad. How do you even start that conversation?

Hey, remember that night at your manor? Surprise!

“God, no.” I delete the draft message.

We need to talk. It’s important.

Too dramatic. Delete.

I have some news that affects both of us.

“Ugh.” Delete again.

My fingers tap restlessly against the phone case as I pace the living room. A text feels so impersonal, but the thought of hearing his voice or seeing those dark eyes in person makes my knees weak. I type again.

Medical situation requires discussion.

“That sounds like I have an STD.” Delete.

Maybe an email would be better? More professional, less immediate. But what if he never checks that account? Or his assistant screens it?

Regarding our encounter at Blackwood Manor…

The cursor blinks accusingly as I trail off. Everything I type sounds either too casual or too formal. How do you strike the right tone when telling a dangerous man you’re carrying his child?

A text is safer than showing up at his gate. At least this way, I can’t see his reaction. Won’t have to watch his face change when he realizes what I’m telling him. Won’t have to deal with his anger in person.

I need to discuss something private with you. Can we meet?

My thumb hovers over the send button. The words blur as I stare at them, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

Just press send. Just do it.

I can’t.

The phone slips from my trembling fingers onto the couch cushions. Maybe after the doctor confirms. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never.

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