Chapter 9 #3
A knock sounds on my door, followed by Anya’s voice. “Sage? It is me.”
I jump so hard the phone nearly flies out of my grip. My heart slams against my ribs as I stab the side button and shut off the screen. I shove the device in my pocket and drag in a breath that does almost nothing.
“Come in,” I call, hoping my voice doesn’t betray everything.
The door opens, and Anya slips inside with a small white paper bag in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. She closes the door behind her carefully and walks over, her heels barely making a sound on the rug.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, her eyes scanning my face.
“Like someone tried to turn my stomach inside out,” I answer with a weak attempt at a joke. My hands knot together in my lap, hiding the tremor.
Her gaze lingers on me a second longer than feels comfortable, like she senses that my answer doesn’t cover the whole truth. But she doesn’t press. Instead, she sits beside me on the bed and places the bag between us.
“I grabbed two tests,” she explains, her fingers brushing the folded top. “In case the first one is unclear or you panic and drop it in the toilet.” She gives me a small smile.
A nervous laugh escapes me. “That sounds like something I would do.”
She smiles bigger now, that warm, steady version that reminds me of the older women at my mother’s church who used to sneak me hard candies during long services.
I look down at the bag as if it might bite. “I’m scared to know,” I admit quietly. “But I’m also scared not to know.”
“That makes sense,” she replies. “Either way, uncertainty will eat you alive. A result at least gives you something solid to stand on, even if it is rocky.”
She nudges the bag a little closer. “You can take it in the bathroom. I will wait out here, unless you want me inside for moral support.”
The idea of someone standing nearby while I pee on a stick makes my cheeks burn. “Out here is good,” I answer quickly. “Thank you.”
She nods, no offense taken, and hands me the water bottle. “Drink some first if you need to. Then follow the instructions. It is simple.”
Simple. Right.
I carry the bag into the bathroom and shut the door, leaning against it with my eyes closed. My breath comes in uneven pulls. I open the bag with clumsy fingers and take out the box, then the test, reading the instructions twice, even though they are straightforward.
Two lines. Pregnant.
One line. Not pregnant.
It should be something people can find out in peaceful bathrooms, with happy partners hovering in the other room. Instead, I am in a Bratva mansion with my sister in a concrete cell on my phone, and a man downstairs who has no idea I might be carrying his child.
My hands shake as I do what the instructions tell me to do. When I’m finished, I set the test on the edge of the sink and wash my hands, staring at the counter so I don’t fixate on the little window filling slowly.
Two minutes.
I hold the edge of the sink and think about anything else.
Hope at seven, curled against me under a blanket fort, eating popcorn while some cartoon played too loudly.
Hope at fifteen, rolling her eyes at the boy who spilled his coffee at the café while trying to flirt with her.
Hope last month, pale in a hospital bed, fingers squeezing mine as she cracked a joke to keep me from crying.
She trusts me to fix this. To bring her home and keep both of us alive. If there is a baby now, that is one more person I have to keep alive in a world where powerful men think in terms of assets and collateral instead of human beings.
The timer on my phone buzzes softly on the counter where I set it. I jump again, then curse under my breath because my nerves are frayed to threads. I pick up the test with hands that don’t feel like mine. Two faint pink lines stare back at me.
My heart stutters, and everything goes silent. No hum of ventilation. No distant voices. No memory of Isaak’s eyes or Ray’s texts. Just those two lines.
I clutch the plastic so hard I am afraid I might snap it. “No,” I whisper, except it doesn’t sound like a refusal. It sounds like recognition. Like my body already knew, and my mind is finally catching up.
I’m pregnant with Luka’s child.
The realization hits in layers. Fear first, flooding every corner of my chest. Fear for the baby, for Hope, for myself, for what Luka will do when he finds out. Guilt follows right behind, because bringing a child into this mess feels selfish and reckless, even though it was never part of any plan.
Buried somewhere under all of that, so tiny I almost miss it, is something else.
A fragile spark that could be hope, awe, or just disbelief that my body is capable of creating life at the same time everything else is falling apart.
I blink hard until the test blurs, then wipe my eyes with the back of my wrist.
I open the door slowly. Anya stands the moment she sees my face.
Her eyes move to my hand, still clutching the test. She doesn’t ask the result out loud.
She doesn’t need to. Her shoulders soften, and she crosses the room in a few quick steps, taking the test from me gently and glancing at it only long enough to confirm what my face already told her.
She sets it on the dresser, then turns back and wraps her arms around me.
I let myself fold into her, my forehead dropping against her shoulder. She holds me firmly, like she has done this before for someone else in some other disaster.
“I know this is not how you imagined finding this out,” she murmurs into my hair.
A broken laugh shakes out of me. “I didn’t imagine anything,” I confess. “I was too busy trying to keep my sister alive and my café open. Babies were for later. For someday when life wasn’t a constant emergency.”
“I understand,” she replies. “Life rarely respects our timelines.”
I pull back enough to look at her. “What do I do?” The question feels huge and small at the same time.
“First, you breathe,” she advises. “Then we make a plan. We can confirm with blood work downstairs in the clinic when you feel ready, but these tests are very accurate. You are early, which is why the lines are faint. You will need a doctor, prenatal vitamins, and rest when you can get it. We will handle those logistics.”
My heart skips quickly. “Luka…”
Her expression turns serious. “You do not have to tell him today,” she assures me. “Not this minute, or before you have had time to process what this means for you. I will not say anything without your permission.”
“You won’t?” I search her face for any sign she might be lying to protect her brother.
“I promise,” she answers, and something in her tone convinces me she means it. “He is my brother, yes, but he is also a man who can react in ways that overwhelm people. You deserve a moment to find your footing before you face that storm.”
I exhale shakily, some of the suffocating pressure easing. “Thank you.”
She squeezes my shoulders. “You are not alone, Sage. Not with the baby and not with Hope. You have more allies than you think. We will keep this quiet until you are ready. When you decide to tell Luka, I will stand next to you if you want.”
I nod because my voice doesn’t trust itself. I place a hand flat over my abdomen, fingers splayed, and try to imagine something the size of a blueberry hiding beneath my palm. Protect what you can, my mother used to tell me. Even when you have nothing, you still have that.
I don’t know how I’m going to protect all of this. Hope. The baby. Whatever pieces of myself are left. I only know that I will. Even if it means standing in this house built out of Luka’s power and lying to him a little longer.
Anya follows the movement of my hand, her eyes softening. “Whatever happens next,” she reminds me quietly, “we face it one step at a time. For now, you rest. I will bring you some tea that will help your stomach.”
She turns toward the door. Before she reaches it, she looks back over her shoulder. “And Sage?”
“Yes?” My voice comes out hoarse.
“Do not let fear make all your decisions,” she urges. “Fear is loud, but it is not always right.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
I sit on the edge of the bed again, one hand pressed over my heart, the other still resting on my lower stomach, and listen to my pulse race under my palm.
Some part of me wants to curl up into a ball and never move again.
Instead, I draw in a breath that hurts on the way down and hold tight to the one truth I can claim right now.
I’m still here, and I’m not done fighting.