Page 95 of Porcelain Lies

My stomach lurches at her words. Morning sickness or nerves? Both?

I press my forehead against the cool glass of my window, trying to slow my racing thoughts. The insanity I heard in that call — what did I just invite into my life?

The sharp rap at my door makes me jump, even though I’ve been anticipating it. Three hard knocks that echo through my apartment like gunshots.

I force myself to move forward. Through the peephole, I see him — Aleksei Tarasov in what looks like formal wear, though his tie is loosened and his jacket is wrinkled. His jaw is clenched, shoulders rigid with tension.

My fingers fumble with the locks. The door opens before I’m ready, before I can compose myself or figure out what to say.

He fills the doorframe, radiating contained violence. His dark eyes scan my face, then drop to my midsection. The intensity of his gaze makes me want to cross my arms protectively over my stomach.

“Proof.” The word comes out clipped, demanding. His accent is thicker than I remember, like his anger is affecting his English.

“I- What?”

“Show me the test.” He steps into my apartment without waiting for an invitation, closing the door behind him with controlled precision that somehow feels more threatening than if he’d slammed it.

My hands start trembling again. “It’s in my purse.”

His eyes narrow. “Get it.”

The command in his voice makes me bristle despite my fear. “You don’t get to just—”

“Now.” The word cuts through my protest like a knife.

I fumble through my purse with shaking hands, painfully aware of Aleksei’s intense stare. The doctor’s report crinkles as I pull it out, the official letterhead making this all feel suddenly, terrifyingly real.

“Here.” I hold it out, hating how my voice wavers.

Aleksei snatches the paper, his eyes scanning the medical terminology. I watch his face, catching each micro-expression — the slight widening of his eyes at the hormone levels, the tightening of his jaw at the estimated conception date.

“Three weeks.” His accent wraps around the words like silk over steel.

“Yes.” I resist the urge to step back as he moves closer, his presence filling my small living room.

“Pack what you need.” He folds the paper with precise movements. “You’re moving to the manor tonight.”

“What??” The word comes out as a squeak. “I can’t just—”

“This is not a discussion.” His brow furrows. “My child will not be raised in this…” His gaze sweeps dismissively around my apartment. “This place.”

“Your child?” Heat rises in my cheeks. “Don’t I get a say in-?”

“No.” He steps closer, forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “You lost that right when you waited so long to tell me.”

The accusation stings, especially because he’s right. I had delayed, hoping… what? That the situation would somehow resolve itself?

“It wasn’t that long!” I object sharply. “It was…only a couple of days.”

“Too long. Get your things.”

“But I have a job,” I protest weakly. “A life here.”

“Had.” His correction feels like a door slamming shut. “Your new life begins tonight.” He turns his attention to his phone and starts making calls.

Anger begins to rise. “Hey!” I say sharply. When he doesn’t respond, I shove his arm. It’s rock-hard.

He turns to face me, ending his call. “What?”

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