Page 93 of Single Mom's Daddies
I take it with shaking hands. Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on the edge of the exam table, staring down at my knees when he comes back in.
His face tells me everything before he speaks. “It’s positive.”
I close my eyes. I don’t breathe.
“I have to tell them, Saffron,” he says quietly.
“No.”
He arches a brow again.
“I’m not ready. You have to give me time.”
He exhales. “I can give you a week. But if they find out I knew and didn’t tell them?—”
“They’ll kill you,” I whisper. “I won’t say a word about it. As far as they need to know, I took a test in my cottage.”
“Thank you for that.”
I barely remember walking back to my room.
Pregnant. I’m pregnant.
My hands go to my stomach, instinctively. There’s nothing to feel. Not yet. But the knowledge is there now, heavy and impossible to ignore. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not this time. I took everything seriously. I hadn’t missed a single dose. I wasn’t reckless. The universe just…didn’t care.
Stubborn, Dr. Vlad said. Maybe he’s right.
A knock at the door jerks me upright. I cross the room quickly, shaking off the daze. When I open the door, it’s Mila.
“There’s something for you here,” she says, beaming. “You got flowers.”
I follow her into the mansion, through the dining room, and into the front vestibule. A delivery box sits on the table. Not wrapped. No card. Just a narrow white box, long and sleek, with the kind of simple elegance I’d expect from a luxury florist. The maid-slash-housekeeper stands by, a knowing smile on her face.
Mrs. Popovich asks, “Who do you think they’re from?”
“I’m not sure.” I’m not about to tell her it could be from all of them. My mouth is dry as I lift the lid. Inside is a single black rose. My breath catches. “That’s…different.” Not at all what I expected from three men.
Mrs. Popovich tilts her head. “Is it from Roman?”
I’m not sure. “Might be. I’ll have to ask.” I carry the box straight to the study. The guys are there, mid-conversation, and they all turn when I walk in. “I?—”
Roman sees the box first, his near black eyes sharpening. “What’s that?”
“I was hoping one of you could tell me.”
He stares at the rose. The blood drains from his face. “It’s probably nothing,” he mutters. “Just some dramatic bullshit.”
I don’t blink. “What do you mean?”
Victor leans forward, jaw tightening. “A long time ago, the Sicilian mob was rumored to send black roses to assassination targets.”
My stomach sinks. “You think this is some kind of…threat?”
“It’s just superstition,” Roman snaps. “A myth. We’ve heard that story for years. No one actually?—”
“She has every right to be scared,” Victor interrupts. “So stop trying to talk her out of it.”
Roman turns on him. “Don’t do this.”
