Page 83 of Single Mom's Bikers

“Any questions?” she asks gently.

A thousand. Who’s the father? How do I tell three men they might have created this life? How do I keep it safe when Luca’s getting closer?

“No,” I manage. “Everything’s fine.”

She gives me pamphlets about prenatal care, prescribes vitamins, and schedules another appointment I won’t keep.

In my car, I study the ultrasound photo. Eight weeks. About a month of morning sickness, and a growing fear of the brothers noticing changes but not connecting the dots.

My phone buzzes with texts from Rose. After yesterday’s argument about the men in suits, I should ignore it.

Instead, I text:“We need to talk. Coffee?”

Her response is immediate:“Usual place. One hour.”

I drive to the small café in the middle of town. Neutral ground. The ultrasound photo burns in my purse.

Rose is already there when I arrive, with two cups waiting. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks.” I settle across from her, noting her tension. “Rough morning.”

“Aren’t they all lately?” She pushes coffee toward me. “What couldn’t wait?”

I stare at the cup, suddenly nauseous again. “I can’t drink that.”

“Since when do you—” She stops, studying my face. “No.”

“Eight weeks.” My voice shakes slightly. “Found out today—well, found out how far along it is today.”

“Evie.” She sets her cup down carefully. “Tell me you’re not serious.”

“Surprise!” I attempt humor, but her expression doesn’t change.

“This wasn’t part of the protocol.” The words come sharp, angry. Then she catches herself. “The plan. This ruins everything we’ve worked for.”

Ice forms in my gut. “What protocol?”

“Nothing.” She stands abruptly. “How could you fucking let this happen? You’ve ruined everything! Just…this complicates things.”

“What things?” I grab her arm. “Rose, what aren’t you telling me?”

“Timelines,” she mutters, pulling away. “Everything’s compromised now.”

“What’s compromised?” But she’s already moving toward the door. “Rose!”

She pauses, not looking back. “Handle it. Before it’s too late.”

Then she’s gone, leaving me with cold, colder fear.

What protocol? What plan? Why does my pregnancy seem to terrify my closest friend even more than Luca’s men finding us?

The baby shifts—just my imagination at eight weeks, but I swear I feel something flutter.

My phone buzzes. Chase is checking where I am. I should head back.

Instead, I pull out the ultrasound photo again. Study the tiny form that’s half me, half…someone I love. Someone who loves me.

All three of them love me. Love my girls. Would love this baby.

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