Page 94 of Emperor of Corruption
“Of course.” Locke jerks his chin at the bag. “Want me to take that?”
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. If I say yes, he might find the tests, even though they’re carefully arranged below the hair products. If I say no, it’ll look suspicious.
I swallow down a fresh wave of nausea and offer Locke what I pray is a composed smile. “Yes, thank you.”
He takes the bag from me, and we walk to the car. He doesn’t peek inside it, doesn’t seem particularly suspicious, which is probably because Locke has long-since determined that I’m not a threat.
He’s right; I’mnota threat. In fact, Killian has proven to be the threat in our relationship. I’m the bystander who can’t seem to get a break no matter how hard she tries. Which just means I’ll haveto try harder—but first, I need to triple-check that I’m not fucking pregnant.
When Locke pulls up in front of the castle, I go to the hotel room on unsteady legs, take the bag into the bathroom, and pull out the three pregnancy tests. I can scarcelybreatheas I pee on all three sticks, set a timer on my phone, and chew on my nails, pacing back and forward in the bathroom. Killian’s still not due back for another couple of hours—enough time for me to confirm I’mnotpregnant, relax, and dispose of the evidence.
When the alarm on my phone goes off, it startles me so much I jump with a yelp. Then, I hurry across the bathroom to check the results. My fingers are stiff as I pick up the test, gazing down at it. There’s one pink line at the end…
And another pink like right next to it, indicating pregnancy.
No.It has to be a fluke. I pick up the second test—same result. The third, as well.
My knees give out. I drop to the floor, nauseous, overwhelmed, horrified, and stuck in a pit of despair. Somehow, I’ve fallen pregnant with Killian’s spawn. Hisbastardspawn, growing inside me, at this very moment.
No.
I know what has to be done—I need to call my gynecologist and schedule an appointment the moment I land back in the states. I have to terminate the cluster of cells inside me before it turns into a baby that I won’t have the heart to get rid of.
My eyes sting with tears as I crawl to the sink counter and reach up to grab my phone. The tears start to fall as I draw my knees up to my chest, my whole body trembling, and navigate to my gynecologist.
It’s 7am in NYC, so I don’t expect her to pick up, but the call goes through. Her receptionist answers.
My tone is weak as I explain I need to see my doctor in regards to terminating a pregnancy. She pencils me in for a rush-appointment the day after I get back to NYC.
I hang up, shrink into myself, and allow myself a few minutes to lose it. I full-on ugly sob, the way I’ve only done a few times in my life. I experience the full force of my mental breakdown, allowing the devastation to course through me, until my tears run dry.
Then, I stand up. Toss the pregnancy tests into the trash bin, and call for room service to come clean out the room.
I wander through the hotel lobby as the maids clean up the room, then return half an hour later.
The maids are gone. The trash cans are empty. Any evidence of my pregnancy that Killian could discover is gone.
I have no intention of telling him that I’m carrying a cluster of cells with his DNA in it—not now, and not ever. If Locke continues shadowing me after I get to the U.S., I can explain away a gynecologist’s visit as my yearly checkup.
I have a mountain to climb on my own—eight terrible weeks topped off with one thing I never thought I’d have to do: an abortion.
But it’s better to scale the cliff myself than let Killian drag me down into the abyss.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Killian
The day is as insufferable as it is endless. Anything that can go wrongdoesgo wrong. First, I end up on a conference call with Silas, where he has the gall to threaten my business. Next, I realize one of my production factories in Germany is only functioning at half-capacity because of faulty machinery, and nobody had the balls to tell me—so I have to organize the delivery of new equipment, which involves dealing with a bunch of bullshit tariffs. By the time I’m done, I’ve missed all of my afternoon meetings, and it’s close to 6p.m.
Lyra flashes across my thoughts. I left her alone for the day, with Locke’s supervision—I wonder what she’s up to. She’s been withdrawn throughout most of the trip, sulking because I was harsh with her when I caught her sniffing around Silas. I haven’t had the time, opportunity, or frankly, the will to smooth that over. What should’ve been a leisurely trip around Europe with a few events here and there has turned into working all day, every day.
Half of the people on my international teams arebeggingto be fired, and as soon as I get back to the states, I’ll be running an extensive and thorough review to cut through the noise and avoid another disaster like this.
Thankfully, I have the evening free, which means I can finally get some time with my Little Bird.
The clock to the supposed end of our arrangement is ticking. Though I promised to part from her at the end of our eight weeks together, I’m finding it less and less appealing to be rid of her.
I don’twantto be rid of her. I suppose I’ve grown somewhat attached to her of late. I don’tloveher—I’m not sure I’mcapableof feeling love—but the evidence of me caring for her is plain to see.
