Page 89 of Santa Daddy
Pregnant.
“No.” The word tore out of me. “No, no, no.”
The lines stayed. They didn’t fade. The tiny digital word didn’t blink away.
Pregnant.
With Konstantin’s baby.
The beautiful, dangerous man who’d kissed me bloody in front of a priest and a room of armed killers. Who’d threatened to chain me to his bed with the same mouth he’d used to sayminelike a prayer.
Run, my brain screamed.You have to run. You have to get out before he finds out. He will never let you go now.
Panic bulldozed through the rest.
I staggered into the bedroom, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Grabbed the first duffel from the closet and started shoving my life into it with frantic, clumsy hands.
Jeans. Sweaters. Underwear. One of his shirts that still smelled like him, because apparently I was that kind of idiot. Thesketchbook he’d given me, because apparently I was sentimentalandthat kind of idiot.
The pregnancy test stayed buried in the bathroom trash under a wad of tissue. Even panicking, I wasn’t stupid enough to carry the evidence with me.
Move. Just move. Don’t think. Thinking hurts.
I stopped long enough at the foyer console to check the status panel Miss “Everything Has a Code” had pointed out once. SECURITY: ARMED – PERIMETER ONLY. OWNER: OUT.
He wasn’t here.
Out meant meetings. Clubs. Whatever Bratva bosses did on Christmas-adjacent mornings. It also meant, if this building worked like any other rich-people bunker, that the main elevators were on “normal” operation for residents.
Last time I’d tried to leave, the button on the generic elevator panel had just given an angry beep.Private mode.
Today, the button glowed a soft white.
My pulse kicked harder.
I slung the duffel over my shoulder, the weight nearly yanking me off balance, and hit the elevator call.
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then the doors slid open with a civilized chime.
I stepped in before it could change its mind. Hit LOBBY with a finger that left a little sweat print on the stainless steel.
The ride down felt like dropping through layers of bad decisions.
My reflection in the mirrored doors looked wild-eyed, hair unbrushed, collarbones sharp above his necklace, which suddenly felt like a GPS beacon instead of jewelry.
The elevator opened to the lobby with a soft hiss.
No alarms. No security team waiting with Tasers. Just a vast stretch of polished marble, floor-to-ceiling glass, and more money in square footage than I’d ever seen in my life.
Christmas had thrown up in here too. Giant wreath over the front desk. Garlands on the railings. Tasteful white lights. It all felt obscene.
Just walk. Casual. Just a wife going for a stroll. Rich people do that.
I made it three steps toward the revolving door before a voice cut through the low murmur of the space.
“Ma’am?”
