My brain goes blank for a second. Just completely empty.
Then it catches up, and I'm pulling the box open even though I know what I'm going to find. Even though part of me already understands what this means.
The test is still inside. White plastic, small digital display.
Positive.
The word sits there in clear letters, impossible to misread.
I stare at it for thirty seconds. Maybe longer. Time does something weird, stretching and compressing until I can't tell if I've been crouched on this kitchen floor for minutes or hours.
Bianca's pregnant.
The thought lands heavy, final.
My wife—in name only, in contract only—is carrying a child.
And I've never touched her. Not once. Not even a kiss at our wedding because I couldn't make myself do it, couldn't force that level of pretense when everyone knew the marriage was a business arrangement.
Which means someone else has.
The affair isn't just an affair. It's produced something tangible, something that's going to grow and become real and complicate everything.
I stand slowly, test still in my hand. The kitchen's too bright, all that recessed lighting making the white plastic damn near glow.
This is why she's been pushy. Why she's been trying to get close, trying to touch me, trying to manufacture opportunities for something to happen between us.
She wanted to hide it.
Wanted me to sleep with her so she could claim the baby was mine, so she could keep playing this game where we're married on paper and she does whatever the hell she wants in reality.
Except I never gave her the chance.
My phone's on the counter. I grab it and the test and I'm out the door before I fully register moving, the whiskey forgotten, the spilled trash forgotten.
Everything narrows down to this piece of plastic and what it represents.
Freedom.
The thought hits me as I'm pulling out of the driveway.
This is how I get out. How I finally end this dead-end marriage that's been slowly suffocating me for eight months. Bianca's pregnant with someone else's child, and no amount of Morelli money or family politics can spin that into something acceptable.
Stellan's house is lit up when I arrive, every window glowing. I don't bother with the front door—just use the biometric scanner he installed after I kept showing up bloody at three a.m.
He's in the living room, laptop open, surrounded by the usual chaos of his existence. Mostly just clothes because he seems to be allergic and a few empty bottles.
"I didn't expect you to come here." He looks up, then sees my face. "What happened?"
I hold up the test.
He goes completely still. Just stares at the small piece of plastic like it might explode.
"Is that?—"
"Bianca's pregnant." The words feel surreal coming out of my mouth. "Found it in the trash."
Stellan stands, moving closer to examine it like he needs to verify I'm not hallucinating. "You're sure it's hers?"
