Three weeks later
I woke up nauseous for the third morning in a row.
I barely made it to the bathroom before my stomach churned violently. Kneeling on the cold marble floor, sweat dripping down my forehead, I waited for the wave to pass.
When it finally did, I washed my face with ice-cold water, staring at my pale reflection in the mirror.
Three weeks as Elena Navarro. Three weeks of life that still felt like a dream. The mansion, the unlimited money, the social events where we appeared as the perfect couple.
And three mornings of vomiting.
—It must be something I ate—I murmured to my reflection.
Except I knew it wasn't.
I went back to the room, grabbing my phone. I opened the cycle tracking app that I rarely checked.
Last period: 47 days ago.
My blood ran cold.
Forty-seven days. Almost seven weeks.
