Page 72 of Cinderella and the Daddy
LUKA
Iscan the room again, more carefully this time.
I want to believe her, but she’s hiding something. We both know she wasn’t at that fucking pharmacy.
Something white catches my eye—papers on the scarred coffee table, too clean and new for this abandoned space.
I cross the room in three strides, my mind cataloging details. Fresh paperwork. No dust. She put these down recently.
My hand hovers over them for a moment. Part of me doesn't want to know what she's hiding. The other part—the part that's kept me alive this long—needs information like I need oxygen.
The logo hits me first. St. Mary's Medical Center. Women's Health Clinic.
My fingers are steady as I pick up the papers, but my pulse kicks into overdrive. Medical forms. The kind you fill out at a doctor's office. Patient name: Cindy Russo. Date: Today.
The words swim before my eyes, rearranging themselves into meaning I'm not ready for. Blood work ordered. HCG levels. Prenatal panel. Estimated date of conception.
I do the math before I can stop myself. The garage. That first time when I took her virginity against the hood of my Mustang. When I was too desperate to think about protection, too consumed by the need to claim her.
Fuck.
The papers crinkle in my grip. At the bottom, in clinical black and white: Pregnancy confirmed. Approximately 12 weeks.
Three months. She's been carrying my child for three months.
My hands shake as I read, the words blurring together before snapping into sharp, terrifying focus. Blood work. Ultrasound appointment. Prenatal vitamins. And there, at the bottom of the most recent form, a due date that makes my knees go weak.
"Khuy," I whisper.
I look at her then, really look. I see what I missed in my initial sweep. Her face is pale, with dark circles under her eyes. But it's not just exhaustion I'm seeing—it's fear. Raw, bone-deep terror.
"I was going to tell you."
Her voice is small, barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a blade.
For a moment, I can't move. I can't think or breathe. The implications crash over me like a tidal wave. This changes everything.
Everything.
I take a step toward her, then another, watching as her shoulders tense with each footfall. She's expecting anger, maybe even violence.
“You were a virgin when I took you,” I say.
She glares at me. “Yes. When you fucked me without a condom, you knocked me up.”
Thatwasmy fault. I had no idea she was a virgin—something we were going to talk about later. I assumed she would be on some kind of birth control.
My mistake.
“How long have you known?” I ask.
Was she running from me? She was going to take my baby and run?
She shrugs.
"You took a test." It's not a question.
She nods. "Yes."
