“With the nanny,” Seraphine replied quietly. “She’s safe. I just… I can’t spend another night in that hospital. It’s freezing there. And I hate sleeping without you.” Her voice quivered. “Being away from you even a few hours is torture.”
Julian softened immediately. “Hey, stop that. You just had stitches. You shouldn’t cry, it’s bad for you.”
I stayed motionless on the couch, fingers grazing the faded paint mark on my old sweatpants, pretending I was mentally wandering through some unfinished painting.
“Julian,” I called loudly, deliberately. “Who’s there?”
So this was a performance now. Fine. I’d play along.
He led her inside a moment later. His hand closed over mine — warm, heavy, possessive.
“This is Seraphine,” he said. “I hired her to help out around the house. And with the baby.”
Their baby.
“She used to work for me as my secretary,” he added smoothly. “Got married last year, had a child, and now she’s back.” Then, like he was doing me a favor, “She’s had some trouble with her vision too, so she understands what you’re dealing with. Until she recovers, she’ll help you get around.”
My vision. The word scraped raw.
Seraphine stepped closer. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Whitmore. I’ll be managing everything from now on. You… and the baby.”
The way she lingered on that last word wasn’t subtle. It was a challenge.
I inclined my head. “Alright. Thank you.”
Nothing for her to latch onto. That clearly irritated her, because seconds later I heard the damp sound of a kiss. Then another. The soft rustle of clothes shifting.
The couch creaked beneath them.
My stomach rolled. I remembered how Julian used to pull me down onto that same sofa, how the fabric would rub my skin raw. One night we’d even stayed up sewing a cover together, laughing about how ugly it was.
I’d thought that meant something.
Without a word, I stood and started upstairs. My foot caught on the second step and I stumbled into the bedroom, collapsing onto the floor. I curled inward, hands pressed against my abdomen as nausea surged.
I gagged, violently.
Footsteps rushed in. Julian filled the doorway. “Elara, what’s wrong?” He touched my shoulder and the sickness doubled.
Then Seraphine’s voice sliced in, sharp with interest. “Wait… are you pregnant? I thought she had the implant.”
Julian froze. “Elara,” he said slowly, “did you get your period this month?”
I shook my head.