Chapter 23 - Poppy
I wake to the sound of my own retching.
One moment I'm asleep, wrapped in Gabriel's arms, and the next I'm stumbling toward the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before my stomach turns itself inside out. I grip the cold porcelain and heave, my body convulsing with a violence that leaves me shaking.
There's nothing in my stomach—I barely ate dinner last night—but that doesn't stop the nausea. It rolls through me in waves, relentless and merciless, until I'm gasping for breath on the marble floor.
"Poppy?"
Gabriel's voice, rough with sleep, comes from the doorway. I didn't hear him get up, didn't hear him follow me. Of course I didn't. He moves like a shadow, like a predator, silent even when he's not trying to be.
"I'm fine," I manage, though my voice comes out thin and ragged. "Just—give me a minute."
He doesn't give me a minute. He crosses the bathroom in three strides and crouches beside me, his hand cool against my clammy forehead.
"You're burning up."
"I'm not. I'm fine. It's just—" Another wave hits, and I lurch back toward the toilet, heaving up nothing but bile and shame.
His hand moves to my back, rubbing slow circles between my shoulder blades. The gesture is surprisingly gentle, surprisingly tender. It doesn't fit with the man who tied me to his bed last night, who fucked me until I couldn't remember my own name.
"This has been happening for days," he says. Not a question.
"It's stress. Or something I ate. Or—"
"Don't." His voice is quiet but firm. "Don't lie to me, Poppy. Not about this."
I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against the cool rim of the toilet. He knows. Or he suspects, at least. He's too observant not to have noticed the signs—the nausea, the fatigue, the strange food cravings, the way my body has been changing in small but unmistakable ways.
But he doesn't know for certain. And neither do I.
"I need to go out today," I say, changing the subject. "I'm meeting Bea for lunch. I've been putting her off for weeks."
A pause. I can feel him studying me, weighing my words against what he knows, what he suspects, what he's trying to figure out.
"Fine," he says finally. "James will drive you."
"I know."
He helps me to my feet, steadies me when I sway, guides me back to bed with a solicitousness that feels foreign coming from him. I lie down and close my eyes, waiting for him to say something else—to push, to demand, to assert the control he usually wields so easily.
Instead, he just pulls the covers over me and presses a kiss to my forehead.
"Rest," he says. "I have meetings this morning, but I'll be back by evening."
Then he's gone, and I'm alone with my secrets and my churning stomach and the terrible, terrifying possibility that I can no longer ignore.
***
I wait until I hear his car pull away before I get out of bed.
The nausea has subsided to a dull queasiness, manageable if I move slowly and don't think too hard about food. I shower, dress, apply makeup to hide the pallor that's become my constant companion. The woman in the mirror looks almost normal—tired, maybe, but functional.
She doesn't look like someone whose entire life is about to change.
I find James in the kitchen, as always. He rises when I enter, setting aside his coffee with the smooth efficiency of someone accustomed to waiting.
"The city, miss?"
"Yes. I'm meeting a friend for lunch at Café Roma."
"Of course. I'll bring the car around."
The drive feels longer than usual. I stare out the window at the passing scenery, my hand resting unconsciously on my stomach. There's nothing to feel—it's far too early for that—but the gesture has become automatic, a physical acknowledgment of the possibility I've been trying to ignore.
I could be wrong. The nausea could be stress, the fatigue could be exhaustion, the missed period could be... something else. Bodies do strange things under pressure, and God knows I've been under pressure.
But I don't think I'm wrong.
I think I know exactly what's happening inside me.
The question is what to do about it.
Café Roma is a small Italian place in a neighborhood I used to frequent, back when my life was normal. Bea is already there when I arrive, seated at a corner table with a glass of wine and an expression that falls somewhere between worried and annoyed.
"Finally," she says as I slide into the seat across from her. "I was starting to think you'd been abducted by aliens."
"Sorry. I've been—"
"Busy. I know. You're always busy now." She pushes the wine list toward me. "Drink. You look like you need it."
I glance at the list and feel my stomach turn. "Actually, I think I'll just have water."
Bea's eyebrows rise. "Water? Since when do you turn down wine?"
"Since I've been feeling off. Probably a stomach bug or something."
"Mm-hmm." She studies me with the sharp eyes of someone who's known me for ten years. "A stomach bug. Is that what we're calling it?"
"Calling what?"
"Whatever's going on with you." She leans forward, lowering her voice.
"Poppy, I'm not an idiot. You've been dodging my calls for weeks.
You look like you haven't slept in a month.
And now you're turning down wine because of a 'stomach bug.
'" She makes air quotes with her fingers. "Talk to me. Please."
I want to. God, I want to. I want to tell her everything—the murder, the stalking, the contract, the man who's consumed my entire existence. I want to tell her about the card hidden in my nightstand, the secret meetings, and the terrible truth I learned about my father.
But I can't. I can't drag her into this world, can't make her complicit in my choices, can't put her in danger by making her a keeper of secrets that could get her killed.
So I do what I've been doing for weeks: I lie.
"I'm fine," I say. "Really. The new job is just demanding, that's all. Big clients, high expectations. You know how it is."
"No," Bea says quietly. "I don't know how it is. Because you won't tell me."
The words hit harder than they should. I look away, blinking against the sudden sting of tears.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I wish I could explain. I just... I can't. Not right now."
Bea is silent for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice is softer, the anger replaced by something that sounds like fear.
"Are you safe, Poppy? Whatever this is, whatever you're caught up in—are you safe?"
I think about Gabriel's hands on my body, his voice in my ear, the way he looks at me like I'm something precious and fragile and entirely his. I think about the locked doors and the serpent carvings and the body I saw him standing over with blood on his hands.
"I don't know," I admit. "I honestly don't know."
The lunch is strained after that. We make small talk, pretend everything is normal, promise to see each other soon. When we hug goodbye, Bea holds on a little too long.
"Call me," she says. "Whenever you're ready to talk. I'll be here."
"I know. Thank you."
I watch her walk away, then turn and head in the opposite direction.
I have one more stop to make.
***
The pharmacy is in a neighborhood where no one knows me.
I chose it deliberately—far from the flower market, far from Café Roma, far from anywhere I might run into someone who could report back to Gabriel. The fluorescent lights are harsh, the aisles cluttered with products I don't need, the cashier a bored teenager who barely glances at me.
I find the pregnancy tests in the family planning section, tucked between the condoms and the ovulation kits.
There are a dozen different brands, a dozen different promises of accuracy and speed and early detection.
I grab the most expensive one—as if the price could somehow change the result—and carry it to the register with my heart pounding in my chest.
The teenager rings it up without comment. I pay in cash, shove the bag into my purse, and flee.
Outside, the city feels too bright, too loud, too full of people going about their normal lives. I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe.
I can't go back to the estate. Not yet, not with this. If I take the test there, someone will notice—the staff, Gabriel, someone. And I need to know before I face that conversation. I need to know what I'm dealing with.
I spot a coffee shop across the street—a small, anonymous place with a single-stall bathroom. Perfect.
I order a tea I won't drink and lock myself in the bathroom, my hands shaking as I tear open the package.
The instructions are simple. Pee on the stick, wait three minutes, read the result. Simple, clinical, as if the answer couldn't change the entire trajectory of my life.
I do what the instructions say. Then I set the test on the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
The woman looking back at me is a stranger. Pale skin, hollow eyes, lips bitten raw with anxiety. She doesn't look like someone who should be having a baby. She doesn't look like someone who should be making decisions about anything more significant than what to have for breakfast.
But here she is. Here I am.
The three minutes feel like three hours. I count the seconds in my head, then lose track and start over. I pace the tiny bathroom, four steps in each direction. I wash my hands twice, then wash them again just to have something to do.
Finally, finally, the time is up.
I pick up the test and look at the result.
Two lines. Clear and unmistakable.
Positive.
I'm pregnant.
I'm pregnant with Gabriel Ambrose's child.
I sink onto the closed toilet lid, the test still clutched in my trembling hand. My mind has gone completely blank—no thoughts, no emotions, just a vast white emptiness where my future used to be.
A baby. I'm going to have a baby.
His baby. The baby of a murderer, a stalker, a man who destroyed my life to make me need him. A man who ties me to his bed and calls me his and looks at me with eyes that see too much.
A man I might be falling for, despite everything. Despite all of it.
What do I do? What the hell do I do?
I could end it. The thought surfaces unbidden, cold and practical. I'm early enough that it would be simple, safe, a medical procedure rather than a surgical one. I could make an appointment, take care of it, and Gabriel would never have to know.
But even as I think it, I know I won't do it. Not because I'm opposed to the choice—I'm not, I believe in the right to make that decision—but because some deep, irrational part of me doesn't want to.
Some part of me wants this baby.
The realization is terrifying. It doesn't make sense. Nothing about my situation makes sense. I should be running, not nesting. I should be planning my escape, not contemplating motherhood with a man who keeps me like a possession.
But I felt something shift when I saw those two lines. Something settle into place, as if a piece I didn't know was missing had finally been found.
I'm going to have this baby.
The question is whether I'm going to tell Gabriel.
I sit on the bathroom floor for a long time, the test in my hand, the weight of the future pressing down on me. Eventually, someone knocks on the door—another customer, needing to use the facilities—and I force myself to stand.
I wrap the test in toilet paper and shove it into my purse, next to Zach's card. Two secrets, hidden in the same bag. Two bombs waiting to explode.
I splash water on my face, take a deep breath, and unlock the door.
The stranger waiting outside gives me an odd look—I've been in here too long, my face is too pale, something is clearly wrong—but I push past her without explanation.
Outside, the city has gone on without me. People walking, cars driving, life continuing as if nothing has changed.
But everything has changed.
I have a secret growing inside me. A secret that will bind me to Gabriel Ambrose forever, whether I want it to or not.
And I still haven't decided whether that's a curse or a gift.