31. Two Pink Lines （Secret）
Two Pink Lines (Secret)
Roman
Ihear her before I see her.
The sound cuts through the penthouse like something breaking.
Not glass.
Not gunfire.
Something softer.
More dangerous.
Vera.
Retching.
My body moves before thought catches up.
By the time I reach the bathroom, she’s already at the sink, shoulders tight, hands braced like she’s holding herself together by force alone.
“What is it,” I ask.
Her voice is too quick.
“I’m fine.”
She isn’t.
I step closer.
She rinses her mouth, avoids my eyes.
“It’s nothing,” she says. “Something I ate.”
I watch her.
The slight tremor in her hands.
The way she keeps her body angled away from me.
Protective.
Not weak.
Guarded.
“You don’t get food poisoning from a controlled kitchen,” I say.
Her jaw tightens.
“I wasn’t just at the penthouse today.”
True.
The clinic.
The chaos.
The exposure.
But something about the timing feels… wrong.
Too sharp.
Too sudden.
“I’ll call Anya,” I say.
“No.”
The word is immediate.
Too immediate.
My eyes narrow slightly.
“It’s not necessary,” she adds, softer now.
“Medical evaluation is always necessary when symptoms present.”
“It’s just stress.”
“Then Anya will confirm that.”
She turns to face me fully now.
Her eyes are steady.
Too steady.
“I don’t want this to become a thing,” she says.
“It already is.”
“Roman—”
“You’re under threat,” I cut in. “Every variable matters.”
Silence stretches.
She looks like she wants to argue.
Like she wants to push.
But something stops her.
“Fine,” she says finally. “Call her.”
The concession is too easy.
I don’t trust it.
But I don’t push further.
Not yet.
Anya arrives within the hour.
She doesn’t waste time.
She never does.
“What are we looking at?” she asks, setting her bag down.
“Acute nausea,” I reply. “Possible stress response.”
Her eyes flick to Vera.
“Anything else?”
Vera shakes her head.
“No.”
Anya studies her for a moment longer.
Then nods.
“Sit.”
Vera does.
Blood pressure.
Pulse.
Basic checks.
Anya’s hands are efficient, clinical.
But I watch her expression.
Subtle shifts.
Calculations.
“You’ve been under extreme stress,” Anya says finally.
“Yes,” Vera replies.
“Any changes in appetite? Sleep?”
“Everything’s been off.”
True.
But not complete.
I see it.
The omissions.
The gaps.
Anya sees it too.
She doesn’t push.
Not in front of me.
“Run bloodwork,” I say.
“Already planning to,” Anya replies.
“No records,” I add.
She pauses.
“Roman—”
“No records,” I repeat. “No digital trail. No external labs.”
Her eyes sharpen.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
She studies me carefully.
Then nods once.
“Fine. Private panel. I’ll handle it.”
“Results go to me.”
“And her,” Anya says pointedly.
“Yes,” I agree.
But I don’t take my eyes off Vera.
Because something isn’t aligning.
Not fully.
Not cleanly.
And I don’t like variables I can’t control.
After Anya leaves with the samples, the penthouse settles into uneasy quiet.
Vera disappears into the bedroom.
I don’t follow.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I don’t know what I’ll find if I do.
And I’m not sure I’m ready to name it.
My phone vibrates.
Anya.
Faster than expected.
I answer immediately.
“Yes.”
Her voice is low.
Careful.
“I need to run confirmation tests,” she says.
“For what.”
A pause.
Then—
“Possible pregnancy.”
The words land like impact.
My chest tightens.
Not outwardly.
Internally.
Controlled.
Contained.
Dangerous.
“Confirm it,” I say.
“I will.”
“How long.”
“A few hours.”
“Call me the second you know.”
“I will.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there.
Phone still in my hand.
Mind already moving.
Calculating.
Rearranging the entire board.
If it’s true—
Everything changes.
The war.
The strategy.
The risk.
Her.
The thought settles heavier than anything else.
Not fear.
Not yet.
But something close.
Because if she’s carrying something of mine—
Then she’s no longer just a target.
She’s everything.
And everything can be taken.
I close my eyes briefly.
Just long enough to feel it.
Then I open them.
And start planning how to make the world smaller around her.