Page 73 of Silent Schemes
"Then I will. I love you, Sienna Cross. Despite everything, because of everything. I love you."
The words hang between us like a death sentence.
Because love in our world isn't salvation—it's damnation.
It's leverage.
It's weakness that gets exploited.
I don't say it back, but my silence says everything.
He holds me tighter, and we both pretend that love might be enough to save us from what's coming.
Later, after he's fallen asleep—a rare vulnerability he only allows with me—I slip out of bed.
My stomach has been unsettled for days, a rolling nausea that comes in waves.
There's a suspicion growing in the back of my mind that I've been desperately ignoring, but I can't anymore.
My period is two weeks late, and I'm never late.
I dress silently in the darkness, leave a note saying I've gone for a drive to clear my head.
It's not entirely a lie.
I need clarity, need to know if the impossible situation just became more impossible.
The 24-hour pharmacy is fluorescent bright and mostly empty at 3 AM.
The teenage cashier is half-asleep, scrolling through her phone.
I buy three different pregnancy tests, trying to look casual, like I'm not potentially carrying the child of the man I'm supposed to kill.
I also grab antacids, aspirin, and candy bars—camouflage for the real purchase.
"Rough night?" the cashier asks, barely looking up.
"Something like that."
I can't go back to the penthouse, not yet.
Instead, I stop at a gas station on the outskirts of the city, one of those places that exists in the margins, where nobody asks questions and the security cameras haven't worked in years.
The bathroom is grimy and smells like industrial cleaner and desperation, but at least it's private.
My hands shake as I unwrap the first test, as I follow the instructions I don't need to read because every woman knows how these work.
The wait is agony—three minutes that feel like three years.
I take all three tests, lining them up on the dirty sink like evidence at a crime scene.
The first line appears immediately on each test—the control line, proving they work.
Then, slowly, inevitably, the second lines appear.
Positive. Positive. Positive.
I stare at the little plus signs, the digital "PREGNANT" display, the two pink lines.
