Page 22 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
She looks up, still a little smug from getting the last word.
"What?"
I meet her gaze and say it plainly, because there's no elegant way to wrap this in sarcasm.
"I'm three weeks late."
Luciana doesn't say anything right away.
She just looks at me like I've said something truly inconvenient.
"What?"
I press my fingertips together, trying not to fidget. "I haven't gotten my period."
She pushes the pizza box aside, no drama, just a quiet dismissal like it's now beneath her attention. "You're sure?"
I nod.
She sits back slightly, her expression shifting from mildly horrified to clinically interested. "So. We're doing this."
"I haven't told anyone," I add. "Not a soul. I didn't even let myself think it until tonight."
Luciana taps a nail against the table, not fast, just enough to prove she's already three steps ahead. "All right. We need to confirm it before we panic. Quietly."
I look at her. "How?"
She stands, straightening her dress like this is just another item on her to-do list. "I'll get a test."
"Luciana—"
She pauses at the doorway. "If you're about to ask me not to make a scene, you're about three weeks too late."
I nod, my heartbeat roaring in my ears.
She hesitates for half a second before slipping out, the door clicking shut behind her.
Alone, I sink back into the chair, my gaze falling to the pizza box.
The scent still lingers, warm and rich, but I don't reach for another slice.
I rise from the chair, my limbs stiff, my dress still pressed with the shape of where I had been sitting.
The wooden floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I make my way to the door, slipping out into the dim corridors of the lower level.
The estate is still, the remnants of the evening lingering in the form of faint footsteps echoing from the upper halls, the clink of silver trays being cleared away.
Somewhere beyond the thick walls, the city moves on, but in here, time feels stretched thin.
I climb the grand staircase, my fingers grazing the carved railing as I ascend, my pulse steady but too loud in my ears.
The paintings of my ancestors loom along the walls, their eyes following me, their expressions carved from centuries of legacy and expectation.
The house feels cavernous at this hour, the air thick with the scent of cigars and expensive cologne, remnants of the men who had occupied the dining hall.
By the time I reach my room, my hands feel unsteady, my body tense with something I don't want to name.
The door clicks shut behind me, sealing me in a space that feels both too vast and too suffocating all at once.
