Page 294 of Kentrell

I pulled my panties back up and stood… but that gnawing in my gut started all over again.

This time… worse.

I barely made it to the toilet before I dropped to my knees… vomiting up what little was in my stomach. Body convulsing. Eyes watering. Breath hitching in between dry heaves that wouldn’t stop.

I stayed there… forehead resting against the cool porcelain… swallowing back tears and bile and fear… all while the clock on Mars’ bathroom wall ticked loud enough to fill the silence.

When the worst of it passed, I sat back on the cold floor… staring at the towel-covered test sitting on the sink… knowing that underneath it… my whole life was about to change.

Again.

I didn’t know how long I sat there. Could’ve been five minutes… could’ve been fifteen. Long enough for my knees to ache and my mouth to taste like regret and stomach acid. I wiped my face with some toilet tissue and stood up slow, holding onto the counter like I was ninety years old and one fall away from breaking something. My heart was pounding—thumping in my ears like it was trying to warn me, like it already knew what I was about to see.

I closed my eyes, blew out a long, shaky breath, then reached for the towel. I pulled it back.

And there it was.

Two bold pink lines.

No hesitation. No faint shadows. No “wait three minutes for results” bullshit. Just two lines. Positive.

My throat closed up. I blinked. Once. Twice. As if maybe the lines would change. Fade. Disappear if I looked at them hardenough. But they didn’t. They stayed right there. Just like this tiny, undeniable fact sitting in my womb.

I covered my mouth with both hands, squeezing my eyes shut as a fresh wave of panic rolled through me. My stomach clenched, but this time I managed to keep it down.

Pregnant.

I was pregnant.

By him.

By Kentrell.

All the air left my lungs in one big exhale as my back slid down the bathroom wall until I was sitting on the floor again… legs folded, arms wrapped tight around my knees like that would somehow hold me together. It didn’t.

A soft knock tapped against the door.

“Z?” Mars’ voice was gentle. Hesitant. Like she already knew too. “You good?”

I scrambled to my feet, rinsed my mouth, and shoved the test into the back of Mars’ linen closet behind an old heating pad and a box of tampons I knew she hadn’t touched in months. Out of sight. Out of mind. At least for now. I flushed the toilet, splashed water on my face, and took one long look at myself in the mirror. Forced a breath. Then another. When I opened the door, Mars was standing there with one eyebrow raised, looking like she was halfway between concern and nosy as hell.

“I’m good,” I lied, voice hoarse but steady enough to make her let it go. She searched my face for another second, then gave me a slow nod before stepping aside and letting me pass. I didn’t stop to chat. Didn’t pause for small talk. I headed straight for my room, grabbing my laptop and files.

For now, I pushed it all to the back of my mind—the morning sickness, the heartache, the exhaustion—and focused on what I could control: the appeal. Tasha and I had been working overtime on it. Long nights. Early mornings. Cross-checkingstatements. Filing motions. And finally—finally—we caught a break. The judge approved our request to present new evidence for Shaniece Johnson’s case.

Jellybean.

I’d spent so much time calling her that in my head, I almost forgot her real name. For 2 weeks, I stayed in the background, making sure my fingerprints weren’t anywhere near the appeal paperwork. I didn’t want her knowing I was involved. Didn’t want the Johnson family—or Kentrell—thinking this was about anything other than justice.

But now? After everything with Kentrell… after falling for him in ways I swore I wouldn’t… after losing him… I needed to see her. Woman to woman. Lawyer to client. Mother to… well… whatever I was now.

I droveout to Willow Springs in silence, my stomach twisting the whole way there. Whether it was nerves or something else, I couldn’t tell anymore.

Whitmore Correctional Facility sat tucked back off a long winding road. Private property. Gated. Surrounded by woods like some upscale rehab center… if you ignored the razor wire and security cameras. The building itself looked more like an office park than a prison—flat gray walls, tinted windows, well-manicured landscaping out front. Discreet. Purposefully low-profile. The kind of place moneyed people sent their problems to disappear.

I parked in the visitor lot and sat in my car for a full five minutes before going inside. Checked my makeup in the rearview. Smoothed down my coat. Told myself this wasn’t a mistake.

The lobby was cold. Overly bright and sterile like every other correctional facility I’d ever been in, but with softer chairs and a receptionist who actually smiled when she checked my ID.

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