CHAPTER EIGHT: First Trimester,First Fight"

[SFX: PENTHOUSE. 3:14 AM. RETCHING.]

I didn’t make it to the bathroom.

I threw up in a $15,000 Baccarat vase by the couch.

Morning sickness at 3 AM. Because my body hated me. Because the _thing_ inside me hated me. Because Adrian’s son already had his father’s timing.

[SFX: DOOR SLAMMING OPEN.]

Adrian was there in 10 seconds. Barefoot. Sweatpants. No shirt. Like he’d been sleeping in the hall. Like he _was_ sleeping in the hall.

He saw the vase. Saw me on my knees. Saw the mess.

He didn’t call Marcos. Didn’t call Susan.

He dropped to his knees next to me. Handed me a cold towel. Held my hair.

I flinched. “Don’t touch me.”

“I’m not,” he said. But his hand was on my back. Big. Warm. Circling. “Breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Like Levinson said.”

Like Levinson said. Like I was a patient. Not a person.

I vomited again. Nothing left but bile and rage.

When it stopped, Adrian grabbed a bottle of water. Tested the seal. Like he always did now. Like poison was waiting. Handed it to me.

“Small sips,” he ordered.

I knocked it out of his hand. Water hit the marble. The Baccarat vase wobbled.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” I screamed. First time I’d screamed. It tore my throat. “Don’t tell me how to breathe! How to eat! How to _live_! I’m not your—”

“Vessel?” he finished. Cold. “You think I don’t know I said that? You think I don’t hate myself for it?”

He stood. Paced. Three steps. Same as always.

“You’re sick because you’re stressed,” he said. “You’re stressed because you’re here. You’re here because Valeria put your address on I*******m to 3 million people.”

He pulled out his phone. Threw it on the couch next to me.

It was open to I*******m. @valeriadsouza. 3.2M followers.

Latest post: My apartment building in Queens. Circled in red. Caption: _“Some girls will do ANYTHING for a Knight. #GoldDigger #HomeWrecker”_

42,000 comments.

_“She’s ugly omg”_

_“I hope she loses it”_

_“Someone find her mom”_

My mom’s address was in the comments.

I stared at the phone. Then at him.

“You did this,” I whispered. “You and your money and your—”

“I _stopped_ it,” he roared. The vase finally tipped.

[SFX: CRYSTAL SHATTERING. $15,000 GONE.]

Silence.

Adrian looked at the shards. At my bare feet two inches away.

Then he bent down. Picked me up. Again. Like I weighed nothing. Like I was glass too.

He carried me to the bathroom. Set me on the counter. Checked my feet. No blood.

“You’re not safe out there,” he said. Quiet now. Hoarse. “And you’re not safe in here when you’re like this.”

He wet a washcloth. Wiped my mouth. Gentle. Too gentle.

“I don’t know how to do this, Beth.” His voice cracked. First crack I’d heard. “I don’t know how to keep you alive. How to keep _him_ alive. Without turning into my father.”

His father. The name he never said.

“Who was he?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Adrian’s hands stilled on my face.

“A man who locked my mother in this penthouse,” he said. “For nine months. While he cheated. While she drank. While I listened to her cry through the walls.”

He dropped the washcloth. Stepped back.

“Congratulations,” he said. Bitter. Broken. “You’re me. And I’m him.”

He walked out.

Didn’t lock the door.

For the first time, he didn’t lock the door.

Because what was the point? I had nowhere to go.

---