Marrying My Billionaire Hookup

She freezes, then glances down at her stomach. “Oh my gosh, how did you know?”

“The drink gave you away. And you’re already glowing.”

She pulls her lips in, but can’t hide a smile. “I just found out this morning. I haven’t told Dominic yet, but we have a date tonight. He’s going to be thrilled.”

That must be so nice. A small pang reverberates through me. I have no one who’s going to be thrilled about my pregnancy. Not that I’m necessarily pregnant, of course. I still haven’t used the test because…well, I don’t really want to know. Not knowing means I can pretend everything’s fine.

Besides, even if I do know for sure, what am I going to do about the situation? Tell Edgar? Keep things to myself and raise the child alone? My head is hurting again, and I can’t begin to process that right now. I’m still debating what to do about Aaron’s threat from two days ago.

I bet nobody makes threats against Elizabeth. Of course, she’s probably too smart to let some asshole ex-boyfriend make a sex tape without her knowing.

And she has that terrifying assistant. I take a quick peek over her shoulder at the Russian man. He’s just standing there, but still looks like he would rip the spine out of anybody who dared to bother her.

She eventually buys the sliver sandals and a set of cuff links for her husband. After Elizabeth and I are done, I head to the barre studio to join Hilary, Kim and Yuna for a session. We exercise there two or three times a week. It’s a great way to decompress and burn some calories.

Except I’m late by forty minutes, thanks to the terrible traffic. So I sneak into the studio and wait for my friends to finish so I can join them for a drink—although I’m not going to be drinking, because I could potentially, possibly, maybe be pregnant. If anybody asks, I can just say I’m dieting. Or have a headache.

Maybe you should just take the test and be done with it.

Yeah, but then I’d know for sure.

Nobody goes this long without a period unless she’s pregnant.

Maybe it’s cancer.

Let’s be more optimistic here.

What would make me optimistic is a good, strong drink…which I can’t have, so I can’t be optimistic.

Sure you can. It might just be menopause.

Why the hell am I arguing with myself? I hate it when my internal thoughts get extra sarcastic. Menopause before thirty? Come on.

Like cancer is more realistic?

Argh. How much longer before the barre session’s over?

My three friends wave once they notice me, and I wave back. Then I thumb through my phone, trying to distract myself, even though my focus is totally not on what’s on the screen.

My mind keeps going back to Elizabeth’s pregnancy…my possible pregnancy…and Aaron’s demand that I marry him so he can get money out of his grandfather. I wish I could just talk to old Mr. Korvid myself, but I can’t risk Aaron ruining Papa’s final year of teaching. I’m certain the weasel’s anticipated the possibility of me running to his grandfather and already has a contingency plan in place. He’s thought of everything else.

Still, he’s no genius, not like that Chinese dude who wrote The Art of War. Aaron must’ve overlooked something. I just have to figure out what. And that calls for a brainstorming session with the girls.

When the barre class is over, I put away my phone, glad to escape my own headspace. I start toward my friends, then stop short and blink a few times, convinced my eyes are conjuring images that don’t exist, like…Edgar Blackwood coming up the stairs? He’s in a dark suit, wearing a serious expression, and no amount of blinking makes him disappear. Actually, the more I blink, the clearer I can see him.

I sense the girls approaching from the left. “What are you looking at?” Hilary says.

I turn my attention to her, hoping maybe it’ll make the vision of Edgar vanish. Hilary wipes sweat from her bare neck, her long red hair twisted into a bun with a few tendrils around her face.

“Someone who shouldn’t be here,” I respond.

Yuna bounces over. “A stalker?”

She sounds somewhere between outrage and excitement, a drama shark scenting fresh blood. She seems to thrive on new incidents, and some of the antics she pulls make me think she’s trying to outdo the characters from that Crazy Rich Asians movie. And if anybody can, it’ll be her, as the only daughter of a family that owns an obscenely wealthy Korean conglomerate.

“No,” I murmur, then turn my focus back to Edgar. He still hasn’t vanished.

Kim looks over as well, pushing her hair out of her face and squinting. “Is that Edgar Blackwood?”