Chapter 422
“What is wrong with me?” she whispered. “Is it the stress? The shock?”
She rinsed her mouth and spat. She felt dizzy. Lightheaded. She leaned back against the counter and closed her eyes. Her hand went instinctively to her lower abdomen.
It felt heavy.
A thought, sharp and sudden as a lightning strike, pierced through her exhaustion.
When was my last period?
She tried to count back. The days blurred into a horrifying montage — the kidnapping, the hospital, the fight with Anson, the divorce. It had to be months ago. Before Syria. Before everything fell apart. The night of the gala, when they had drunk too much champagne in the limo, when for once they hadn’t used protection.
Eliza’s heart skipped a beat. Then another.
Impossible.
Dallas was sick. He had been pushing her away. He said he was—
She remembered Vance’s face outside the ER. That look of utter finality. But months ago the diagnosis had been less absolute. Vance had spoken of progressive damage from the toxins, a slow decline. The cardiac event had been the final, catastrophic blow, turning a grim prognosis into an irreversible reality. Months ago, there had still been a sliver of hope — a desperate, fading chance.
She ran to the bathroom. She tore open the cabinet under the sink, shoving aside bottles of lotion and cleaning supplies until her fingers closed around a small, crushed box.
A pregnancy test. Bought months ago as a just-in-case. Never used.
Her hands shook so badly she tore the box trying to open it.
She used it.
She set the stick on the marble vanity.
Three minutes. The box said three minutes.
It felt like three years.
Eliza paced the small bathroom. One, two, three steps. Turn. One, two, three steps. Turn.
She didn’t look. She couldn’t look.
If it was negative, she was simply sick. Stressed. A widow to a living husband.
If it was positive—
Her phone rang in the other room.
Eliza flinched, a scream catching in her throat. She ran out and grabbed it.
Jeannine.
She answered, her breath coming in short gasps. “Jeannine?”
“Eliza.” Jeannine’s voice was calm and controlled — the voice of a woman who managed crises for a living. “I know you went to the hospital. I know Simmons sent you away.”
“Is he—” Eliza couldn’t finish the sentence.
“He is alive,” Jeannine said. “But he is in a very fragile state. He doesn’t want to see anyone right now. Not even me.”
Eliza squeezed her eyes shut. “He hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Jeannine sighed. “He hates himself. Eliza, listen to me — you need to take care of yourself. You sound breathless. Are you okay?”
Eliza turned and walked back to the bathroom.
She looked down at the vanity.
Two pink lines. Bold. Unmistakable.
The world tilted on its axis.
Pregnant.
She was pregnant with the child of a man who had just been declared irreparably sterile. A man who was dying. A man who had pushed her away to save her.
.
.
.